


After

by rideswraptors



Series: Before and After [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Post-Battle, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 23:28:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 44,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6214432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideswraptors/pseuds/rideswraptors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So I have an idea,” she said slowly after a while. His only response was a hum because he wouldn’t comment on her having ideas. “I’m getting the impression that everything leading up to the battle is very complex and goes back a few years.” He hummed in affirmation. “So maybe, every once in a while, and I don’t care what time, we go back to the pond. And you tell me another piece of the story.”<br/>“That could take a while.”<br/>“We’ve time enough,” she told him softly, leaning into his side. “And in exchange, you can ask me anything you want about anything you want and I’ll answer.” He smirked and she slapped his chest, “Perv.” She swayed away just so. “There’s one condition though. And it’s a doozy.”<br/>If she asked him not to tell Ron and Hermione, he would struggle with it, but he’d probably manage. Maybe. Hermione got pushy when she wanted to know something. He couldn’t imagine what other conditions she might have. After all, it was about what she wanted to know. He was reluctant to begin with. </p><p>He sighed and relented anyway, “Name it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is technically a prequel to "Before 19 Years," but it's fine if you read that first. I was writing a conversation between Ginny and Draco which produced unexpected results. I knew I wanted them to talk, but I had no clue what they would say. Ginny figured it out for me. Anyway, she mentions a dark period in Harry's life after the battle, when he wished that he'd stayed dead. I felt like I needed to go back and write that part of it.

After. It was finally _after_.

                Harry’s life was one before and after following another. Before Hogwarts, After Hogwarts. Before Voldemort, After Voldemort. For a brief second he supposed that there was no “Before Voldemort,” but that maybe it was the same as Before Hogwarts. It didn’t matter, however. It was _after_. Finally and permanently after.

                Ron and Hermione led him from the headmaster’s office down to the Great Hall, hoping to make some sense of the chaos. And it definitely was still chaos, bodies were being moved, looked over by St. Mungo’s staff before being vanished away to the morgue. Families were arriving to identify and claim bodies, to find their children, to help clean up the wreckage. Filch was still uselessly sweeping at a pile of large boulders, openly weeping. Ron found it amusing. There were so many people, so many voices, and just above the din were sobs. Mourning, Harry realized, grief. That’s what came after Tom Riddle. Venomously, he thought that he was just another piece of the rubble. As Ron and Hermione walked eagerly forward, Harry felt his steps slow, felt himself fall behind. There was a high pitched whine in his ears and his hands trembled. Ron and Hermione moved away from him. For a split second he thought he was hallucinating that he’d suddenly gone deaf; in reality an eerie hush swept over the hall at his arrival. Whispers danced from lips to ears, heads swiveled to get a look, to get confirmation, and then there was nothing but silence. Silence and flashes bright red hair.

                Harry’s first order of business after dispensing of the Deathly Hallows, was to promptly pass out.

                Before he went down completely, he heard yelling, there was a rush of footsteps and hands on him. His name being called out frantically. But it was too much, so he went under.

                It was Molly Weasley who decided that Harry would be taken back to the Burrow instead of St. Mungo’s. Several healers attempted to disagree with her, only to face her wrathful lecture on who knew what was best for Harry Potter, as she’d looked after him just as long as anyone, and since he no longer had a guardian, she would damn well step into the role. It didn’t seem to matter to anyone that Harry was of age. The healers argued he would be more _comfortable_ at the hospital, and could be properly taken care of. Madame Pomfrey, coming from the left wing, took Harry vitals and checked him over (not a single healer knew a person better), and declared that he was thriving but sleeping and a hospital would be superfluous so long as he had some quiet, comfortable place to lie. The healers’ case was lost entirely when McGonagall stepped in and reminded the healers that not only would the hospital have more than their fair share of patients, but that Mr. Potter was once again, a popular celebrity, and that the hospital’s affairs would be unnecessarily disrupted by the press and the Ministry should he be taken there. By the time McGonagall finished her statement and they turned to look for Harry, he was gone. Along with Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and Luna. Neville stood in their place, hand stuffed in his pockets, and shrugged. Molly looked over to her husband who had folded his arms across his chest and was studiously gazing at the floor until she caught his eye. He looked up at her and winked, making her beam. She loudly announced that she was going to find her sons and go _home_ , “We’ll be back in a few days to help with the clean-up,” she told McGonagall sweetly before running off to find the boys.

                “Well,” the headmistress interim clapped her hands together, “That settles that.” She reached out a hand to Neville, “Mr. Longbottom, might you lend me a hand with something…?” Neville took her arm gladly, allowing her to put more weight on him than she usually would. Her ankle was still healing from a sprain.

                As the adults had been deciding what to do with their best friend, Ron and Hermione made eye contact with Ginny, Neville, and Luna and made a fast and silent decision. Hermione snagged the cloak from Harry’s pocket, draping it over him on the stretcher as best as she could. Luna cast a levitating charm on the stretcher, Ginny cast a light-load charm on Harry to ease her burden of concentration, and Ron pulled out the Map to find them the quickest route to Hogsmeade. Neville shook his head quickly, wanting to stay behind in case he was needed. Hermione kissed his cheek once, and they were gone.

                The apparating was tricky since Harry was unconscious and Ginny hadn’t been able to learn properly. Fleur taught Luna at Shell Cottage, but she decided it would be best if she apparated with the stretcher. Hermione took Ginny, Ron took Harry. And just like that, they were outside the Burrow’s wards, staring up at the remnants of their safe haven and childhood home. The death eaters had not been kind to the Burrow. They’d rifled through everything, broken furniture, hexed things. Ron and Hermione left Harry with Luna outside of the wards to do a quick sweep of the house, just in case. Finding nothing, they called her in, and Harry, back on the stretcher, was taken up to Ron’s room.

                Not an hour later, the Burrow was swarmed with Weasleys and strays and people waiting for news. Molly Weasley was a fearsome thing to behold, cooking and consoling as her own tears slipped down her cheeks; Kreacher apparated over, unannounced, and offered his services until his master woke. Charlie and Percy had taken to watching over George, who was distraught and not capable of doing much outside of moaning in his sleep. They were piled together on a couch, George sat between them with his head on Charlie’s shoulder, his hand ensconced in Percy’s. Bill was assisting Fleur with whatever she needed, tea, wets rags, cleaning supplies, anything. Andromeda brought Teddy over. Neville and his gran came over to help Molly. Kingsley was in and out with news; some death eaters had escaped, and Harry’s safety was a priority until the whole mess was sorted. He wasn’t just a hero, he was a witness, and in the new world order, he would eventually need to testify. Mr. Weasley ushered people in and out, updating them as he could in between Kingsley’s comings and goings. Aberforth was there for a time, wanting to check in on Harry and other students who’d come to find one another. As usual, the Burrow was the hub of information, and for a time, everyone was so distracted by the flurry of mundane activity that they weren’t quite grieving properly just yet. Still, every few minutes or so, eyes would lift to the ceiling, wondering when Harry was going to wake up. If he ever did.

*

                Everything was dark. Was it dark because it was night or dark because his eyes were closed? He fluttered his eyelids, letting in stabs of unwanted light. He winced. Eyes were closed. He felt…normal, like he was breathing, but he’d felt that way the last time. His body felt heavier though, tired. His other senses were sluggish, couldn’t feel what he was laying on, couldn’t smell or hear anything properly. Just the darkness. He preferred that. It was quiet there, calm, no one looking at him, watching him, expecting him. Rather than go back to the noise, he could stay in oblivion, sink into it. Rest for a while. But maybe that’s what he’d been doing? Hard to say, he couldn’t remember anything before the dark. A scream. His mother’s? No. _Ginny’s_. He’d fainted. Was it fainting if you didn’t remember? He’d ask Hermione, certainly there was a distinction. Hermione. Ron. He needed to get up and find Hermione and Ron. When he knew they were okay, he could go back to the dark.

                Sluggishly, he opened his eyes, taking in the afternoon light streaming in from the window across from his bed. Distantly he recognized the hideous shade of orange on the walls, the shape of the bed he was in, the size of the room, the smell that was distinctly Weasley. Ron’s room. The Burrow.

                “S’not King’s Cross,” he garbled out to no one. Except that he got an answer.

                “You wouldn’t think that if you were downstairs. I’d say half of the wizarding world’s been in and out the past few days.”

                Harry knew that voice. It was Ginny’ voice. He tried to get his eyes to focus, wildly darting around to land on her sitting upright at the foot of his bed holding a magazine. Which he realized wouldn’t be possible if the bed hadn’t been enlarged. Her eyes were intently focused on him, a sad smile on her face.

                “Ron and Mione?” he rasped out. His throat was so dry that it ached. Every shift of his tongue scratched at his throat painfully. Ginny was quickly off the bed and bringing him a glass of water. She held his head up, supporting his neck so he could drink properly. Ginny smelled as she always did, vanilla and apple blossoms.

                “See for yourself,” she told him gently, pointing over him. The bed had been enlarged, enough so that eight people could fit on it. Ron and Hermione were curled up together, not a foot away, sleeping. “I’ve had to bring all their meals up here. Said they didn’t want to leave until you woke up.” Harry let his head fall back on the pillow with a heavy sigh. Ginny set the water glass aside and slid into the bed alongside him. He felt her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest over his heart, and it was soothing. The warmth and the weight of her.

                “You?” he asked vaguely.

                She nuzzled into his shoulder, “I’ve been here, acting as a go-between. Someone had to look over those two while they were looking over you. And a lot of people have been by to see how you were.” He grunted. “Good people,” she insisted, “Aberforth and Hagrid and McGonagall. Andromeda’s staying here with Teddy until they can sort out Tonk’s things. Mum hasn’t stopped moving since…” she let her words trail off and he was grateful. He couldn’t tolerate her grief just then. She had a right to it, and it was there, but his exhaustion was bone deep, and his overwhelmed brain couldn’t take on anything else. She must have sensed it, read whatever it was she always managed to read, and left it alone. “How do you feel?” she asked after a few beats of heavy silence. Harry knew she wanted more, she wanted his relief and excitement, wanted to hear his plans for the future and what he’d been doing since they last spoke. But he wanted none of it. He wanted oblivion.

                “Tired,” he mumbled. “Hurts.” What it was that hurt, Harry couldn’t particularly say, since his whole body felt numb. Honestly, there was no reason to have said it at all. Felt true, though.

                “I’m sure,” she said sitting up, looking down at him. “Go back to sleep, Harry, I’ll get you up in a while to eat something.”

                “M’kay,” he murmured, settling into the pillow again. He didn’t say that he had no intention of waking up. He didn’t understand it himself, just yet. “Gin?” he asked, eyes closed. He heard her responding hum. “H’long have I been sleeping?”

                “Three days,” she answered quietly from her spot by the door, “It’s been three days, Harry.”

                Three days since Tom. Three days since Remus and Tonks and Fred and Colin and all of the others who were jumbled images and voices in his head. His oblivion had been invaded by the dead. He didn’t want that. He wanted the quiet back.

                “Mmm, seems longer.”

                After Ginny and her mother woke him, Ron, and Hermione a few hours later with broth and bread and just about anything they might request, the trio started to feel human again. Hermione was so relieved that Harry was awake that she barely let go of his hand but to eat. Ron might have been jealous had she not been half in his lap while holding their friend’s hand. It hardly mattered, Ron was equally relieved. But they were still too weak and tired to do much of anything, so Ginny was their runner, bringing everything they needed. In between her time at home with her father, Luna had come by to check on them, giving them updates on the house reconstruction and about their classmates. Neville had gone back to Hogwarts for the clean-up and wrote every day. Dean and Seamus came by several times, just to sit and visit. They carefully asked no questions.

                Unable to stand being treated like an invalid for long, Harry demanded to be let out and downstairs. He claimed they could stick him with a babysitter for all he cared, he just couldn’t look at _orange_ for another second. Ron, eating at the time, was not offended. They quickly discovered that his legs were weakened from his bed rest, so it took three people to get him down all of the steps. And Molly set him up nicely in the kitchen with a settee near the window so that he could see everyone’s comings and goings and get the mail as it was dropped by. Ron and Hermione, never out of each other’s company, were never too far away from Harry. They were set up in the sitting room, making arrangements to go to Australia for Hermione’s parents, talking to ministry officials about a variety of things, and to any visitors that stopped by. Bill and Fleur had taken Charlie and Percy back to Shell Cottage. George was usually lying about somewhere near where the most people were. Andromeda had taken Teddy back home, in an attempt to give the Weasleys some space.

                Harry refused to speak to anyone about anything related to Tom Riddle except for Kinglsey, who had been appointed Minister of Magic. And even then, his only comment to the new minister was that he needed time. Nothing that had happened was urgent to the present, and he wasn’t willing to discuss any of it until later. Disgruntled, the minister accepted his decision.

                Ginny was the one who made him get up and start walking around the house. At first it was slow and mostly Ginny’s effort, but with a little more rest and Molly’s cooking, he felt much stronger. They started walking around the backyard and into the orchard. Ginny talked. Harry didn’t. She told him everything she’d heard about every one of his friends. And when there was no more news to report, she talked about the dead. She told him every story she remembered about Fred, every prank, every laugh, every hard won heart to heart conversation. She told him about Colin Creevy and their friendship at school. She told him everything she knew about Nigel Wolport, even though it wasn’t much. She told him about her time with Tonks and how quickly they’d bonded. She even talked about Lupin and Sirius and her suspicions about their relationship. She talked and talked and talked, leaving no space for him to fill. It went on like that for days, until one night when the four of them and George were sleeping on the enlarged bed in Ron’s room. George couldn’t sleep alone. Ron and Hermione couldn’t sleep without knowing the other was near, without having Harry within arm’s reach. Ginny was placed in the middle of them all, acting the mother hen without hesitation. It was late in the night when Harry turned to her, hand heavy on her waist, eyes wide and terrified.

                “Ginny?” she turned to hold him face to face, a hand coming to cup his cheek. “I _died_.” She would tell him years later that her heart had fallen straight into her stomach, that everything hit her like a punch to her solar plexus when he’d whispered that out. But she kept her face neutral, placid.

                “I know, love,” she lied, because she didn’t, _couldn’t_ , know. But Harry looked so much the scared little boy he’d always been, and all she wanted was to hold him and tell him it would be fine and they were okay and it was over. “But you came back, right?”

                “I wanted to,” he whispered. “But now I don’t know.”

                “ _Harry_ ,” she breathed.

                “I shouldn’t be alive,” he croaked out between tears, “All those times,” he gasped for breath, trying to stave off his panic, “I should be dead. S’not right. I should be with _them_.” Them. His parents. Sirius. Hedwig. Dobby. Moody. Tonks. Remus. Dumbledore. Colin. Nigel. Lavender. Dozens of others. _Tom_. Without warning, Harry began to shake and struggle for air, he looked at her wildly. “I—I can’t—” he was cut off by a gasp.

                “Harry,” Ginny said patiently, “I need you to breathe. You’re having a panic attack, okay? Take a deep breath.” She put her hand to his middle, pushing in, and took deep breaths herself so he might mirror her. Eventually he did settle down, breathed evenly, and drifted back to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Day by day, Harry came back to himself. He was talking normally, eating regularly, on a normal sleep schedule. After talking things over with Mr. Weasley, he decided it was high time he got over to the Ministry to start sorting through the wreckage. They needed names, information, locations. Kingsley wanted Harry to attend meetings and councils to strengthen their positions on reform policies. Since Harry was mostly in agreement with Kingsley, he didn’t have a problem doing it. Kingsley wanted his _help_ , not his name. “Though, it won’t hurt anything,” he’d laughed. The first time he went, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny went with. Their testimony was also needed in many cases, and Ginny was one of the few Hogwarts students they were consulting on the events that had taken place at the school over the last year.

                “We need to know, but we don’t want to pry blindly. If you give us a few names of the willing and talk to some of the more reluctant, we can hammer this out.” Then Hermione and Ginny were needed at Hogwarts. Hermione was to be named Head Girl, as she’d already confirmed she was returning to school, and McGonagall wanted to speak with them both about changes, reforms, and reconstruction. Harry was stuck in meetings all day, so Ron accompanied them. After that, Harry started going to the Ministry alone, and his life became a fairly regular, predictable schedule.

                If he wasn’t at the Ministry with Kingsley, he was at Andromeda’s with Teddy, if he wasn’t there he was at the Burrow with Molly. The trifecta of his life; Ministry, Weasleys, Teddy. There was a solid month of funerals, and he attended all of them, regardless of the press. After about two or three, the hype wore off. Who was really surprised that Harry Potter and his friends were going to every funeral for those that died at Hogwarts? They found Rita Skeeter there twice, and each time Ginny set one of her infamous hexes on her to make her leave.

                Fred’s was just as bad as you’d expect, and just as good. Everyone was so distraught, and they all hated how somber it was. George was sat between Charlie and Percy, as usual, though Ginny was in between Percy and George, with Bill and Ron flanking them. Fleur sat next to Bill, Hermione next to Ron. Their parents were just off and to the left in their own little section, looking utterly wrecked. Lee Jordan gave the first speech about his friendship with Fred. Great orator that he was, he focused exclusively on Fred, not mentioning where George had been at the time. That made it a little less tragic somehow, almost suggesting that Fred and George were two individuals and not soulmates completely devoted to one another. George laughed the loudest at Lee’s stories.

                “We’d like to save the best for last, so if anyone else would like to get up and share before George graces us with his presence, feel free.” There was a long line. Everyone seemed to want to talk about Fred. It wasn’t as earnest as laying Lupin and Tonks to rest with Teddy in his arms. It wasn’t Snape’s silent send off. It wasn’t even like Colin Creevy’s funeral, where his muggle family travelled in from all over, mourning loudly in all black. No, at Fred Weasley’s funeral there was a lot of laughter. People just couldn’t help it. Even if their stories had both twins involved, there was always something so typically _Fred_ about it. Even Mrs. Weasley choked out a few chuckles. The Weasley siblings opted not to go up, as they had decided to have their own private memorial later without all the people. This service was for everyone else who knew him, school mates, colleagues, extended family. Harry wondered which group he fell in.

                He wondered if he should get up now and say something, but hesitated for a long while, not wanting to set a tone or disrupt anything. He had plenty of memories of Fred. Some with George, some without. But, Harry hadn’t spoken at any of the other funerals except for Colin’s. He hadn’t wanted to attract more attention to himself than necessary. He still didn’t want that. There was more press there than at the others since it was the Weasleys, Harry’s surrogate family, and because Fred was a successful business owner turned Potterwatch announcer, turned fallen hero. Harry didn’t want to take away from that. But as the line dwindled down, he saw Ginny, sat a few chairs diagonally from him, look over with sad eyes and a bright smile. Ron must have caught her gaze and followed it, his expression a mirror image of his sister’s. Harry gave them a curt nod and went to the end of the line. He felt eyes dart over to him, whispers shot through the crowd. But it was better than what he’d imagined would happen. Angelina Johnson was the last in line before him, and before she could finish, she broke down crying, ran down, and threw herself at George, who caught her easily, cradling her in his lap. It was an unnerving way to start his own memories.

                Harry walked up to the podium, holding his hands to stop the tremor, and took a deep breath.

                “You’d think after everything that talking in front of a large crowd wouldn’t make me nervous,” he joked with a shrug. “But I am. Probably because this is the last thing I want to be doing,” he cut himself off, “talking at a brother’s funeral.” There was a hum through the crowd and Mrs. Weasley sobbed into her husband’s shoulder. Ginny was giving him a fond look that made him grin a little. “You all know me as the Boy Who Lived, the Boy Who…did whatever it is I’m to have done.” He paused. “But to Fred I was only ever _that specky git_.” A tumultuous wave of laughter erupted, warming his insides. “Obviously George was in love with me,” he teased, George laughed, “but to Fred, I was just Ron’s friend. Another body in the house. Another player on his team. He slipped me more puking pastilles pasties and sugar hexes than I care to remember. Hah, I really was just another test subject to him.” More than one person had related a similar incident, but it never failed to make people chuckle. “But see, even if it was painful or embarrassing or…completely disgusting, I never minded much. Because I didn’t have siblings growing up,” his throat tightened. They were reaching a sore spot.

                “Fred was the kind of brother anyone would have wanted to have. Whenever something terrible was happening, or when people were convinced I’d lost my mind, Fred always backed me.” He paused. “Loudly,” he admitted, “usually shouting abuse at someone. And you could always count on George to back Fred. It was like having two devils on your shoulder, and no angels.” He laughed himself, remembering the Triwizard Tournament, and every year before. “Actually, after my first run-in with Tom Riddle at the end of first year, Fred and George tried to send me a toilet seat. Yes. Madam Pomfrey wasn’t happy. At all. Naturally, it was all _my_ fault, but I hadn’t laughed that hard in months,” his voice was drowned out by the Weasley siblings and Hermione bursting into laughter, snorting over their long-held inside joke. George was claiming that that had been all Fred’s idea. The others in attendance were bemused. “That’s their way. It was Fred’s way. The worst thing imaginable could happen, and he would be first in line with an idea to diffuse the tension. And we’re all better having known him. Especially now. Because now, when everything’s sad and terrible we can ask ourselves what Fred would do. That’s what I’ll do anyway. Because that’s the memory he would have wanted to leave us with. He was among the best of us,” Harry said firmly, looking up and into the crowd, “He was the best of us and I’d gladly have traded my life for his. Gladly. He would have done the same. And right now, he’d be telling me to shut my gob and quit acting like a prat for thinking that way when I we ought to be celebrating.” His shoulders shook in laughter at the Weasley boys’ _hear, hear!_   “All right, all right, I get it. Last thing and I’ll hand it over to George.” He cleared his throat and threw his shoulders back, wanting to give Fred one last thing before he said goodbye. “In light of recent events, everything at Weasley Wizard Wheezes is now 50% off…oofph!”

                He didn’t make it far through that sentence because George dumped Angelina from his lap and tackled Harry, smoothly taking his spot behind the podium. Everyone was laughing tiredly, fond but exhausted. Harry managed to right himself and brush off his robes, only to be wrapped in the George-bear hug and to receive a loud (and very wet) kiss to his cheek. “Ew, George,” Harry whined, “Just ew.” He took his seat again. Fleur held out her hand to him as he passed by, he took it and squeezed, his gut wrenching a little at the tears on her beautiful face. Fred had once said that Fleur was too pretty to cry, and should always be made to laugh. George had agreed and recommended they do just that. For the life of him, Harry couldn’t remember the result.

                George stood in front of them all, perfectly at ease. He and Fred had always been first and foremost, performers. It was odd to see him up there alone, and he stood slightly off center to the podium, as if making space for another speaker. Harry wondered if that habit would ever go away. George just looked so _lost_.

                “I told Mum and Dad that Freddie woulda hated all this,” he started slowly. “Talking about him being dead and crying and all the _black_. There’s a reason our shop’s color is magenta, you know.” There was a trickle of laughter. “And most of you probably don’t have a single memory of him without me, matched set, they say. Prolly true.” He patted the podium. “What you all didn’t know is that Fred was the brains of our duo. He was just…brilliant. Diabolical. Underhanded. Always willing to go the extra mile to make sure those products were perfect. Professional pride, he’d say.” George trailed off. “He was a liar, too. Right bastard when he wanted to be. Anything for a laugh, even on me.” He shook his head ruefully, “But I love the tosser and I hate every minute he’s not here.” He cleared his throat. “Fortunately, funerals was one of the many things we talked about. How we wanted them, how ridiculous they could be. And Freddie, he did love the absurd.” Without warning all of the Weasley children plopped ridiculous Headless Hats on their heads and went to stand up behind George. There was an outraged cry from the middle somewhere, probably Auntie Muriel. “There’s one for each of you under your seats if you want ‘em. On the house, spread the word.” There was a lot of clamoring and jostling, giggles and exclamations as the guests checked under their seats. Mostly everyone put a hat on, Harry included, with the exception of the older witches and wizards, who shook their heads despairingly.  “And now,” George continued, “Well, I’ve prepared a tribute for the man of the hour.”

                Harry didn’t know what the trigger was, perhaps a word or wandless magic, but the scene erupted into chaos. The platform with the podium and Weasleys rose up about five feet to reveal a mad looking puppet show of the Battle of Hogwarts, blaring loud step music. Fireworks shot up behind them, around them, above them, sparks dipping and diving, forcing people to duck or jump from their seats. One lit a fake fire on someone’s robes, causing some panic and some laughter. There were a dozen or so chairs that grew legs and started running around the yard with their occupant yelling, screaming, or laughing. Flitwick, head still invisible, was one of those occupants and he enjoyed himself immensely, high-fiving Hagrid on his trip around. Fanged flyers darted along the air just above everyone’s heads. There were several enlarged Rubby O’chickens dancing in front of the puppet show and down the center aisle. And Harry didn’t see who, but several people smashed open some Weather in a Bottles, causing a small snow storm, a tornado, and a little thunderstorm to break out around the perimeter. The best were the fireworks, though, they shot up beautifully in all sorts of shapes and colors, designs Fred had sketched out and George made possible. Fred’s full name darted across the sky, and it burst into an Albatross, gliding down above the crowd before swooping up and exploding into a dozen stars. An Albatross for Fred’s patronus, a perfect match to George’s.

                It was madness, pure chaos, but louder than the screams, shrieks, and yelling, there was a lot of laughter. The Weasleys stood up on the platform, stomping and clapping and howling as they watched everything unfold. Their parents stood off to the side, holding onto each other, looking up at their children, laughing and crying. Hermione, Fleur, and Angelina were helped up onto the platform by their respective Weasley brothers. Harry had a harder time getting there, dodging a fanged flyer, fireworks dead set on lighting his hair ablaze, and a runaway chair. He passed by Arthur and Molly, receiving a warm, double hug from them, and he couldn’t remember ever feeling so loved. Molly pressed a kiss to his cheek before he went over to the platform. While he waited for Ginny to walk over, he amused himself by watching the puppet show. It was an absurdist rendition of what happened, colored ribbon being shot out from wands instead of light, Harry tackling Tom Riddle and beating him over the head with a rock, when it had been a duel. He chuckled, not really knowing what to think. But then a headless Ginny was plopping herself down on the side of the platform, her feet dangling in front of him. He smirked when they both took off their hats at the same time.

                “Why don’t you come up?” she yelled over the noise. They were distracted momentarily by a very girlish shriek, which turned out to be Oliver Wood ducking a Fanged Flyer. When their attention was back on each other, Harry only smiled and shook his head. Behind them, Weasleys had paired off and started dancing in spinning circles, catching each other’s arms and swinging around, stomping their feet. All headless. Fred would have loved it. Ginny was looking down at him sadly when he caught her gaze again, something familiar and fond, and reminiscent of their break up. She cupped his cheek and then rested that hand on his shoulder.

                “Come back to the living for a bit, yeah?” she said. “There’s enough time to rejoin the dead.” It was a macabre thing for her to say. And that usually wasn’t her way; she preferred optimistic and angry over morose and pessimistic. Harry shuddered to think of the negative effect he’d had on her. He swallowed hard, trying to tamp down his guilt-ridden panic, something he was getting better and better at doing. But she was right. All of his time and thoughts were spent on the dead. He’d gone to so many funerals, spoken to so many grief-stricken families, and he was testifying day after day in the criminal cases against the worst of the remaining death eaters. He remembered that first thought he’d had waking up for the first time at the Burrow: _This isn’t King’s Cross._ Ginny had been the one to reassure him that it wasn’t. He was alive, but Death gnawed at him. It was a hateful, resentful feeling. Sometimes, he just ached for that oblivion. The nothingness. But Ginny was watching at him with that hard, blazing look in her eyes like she knew exactly what he was thinking, like she knew exactly what he wanted and hated it. Refused and denied it. Instead of arguing, Harry sighed and hoisted himself onto the platform, Ginny following him to stand. He offered her his arm, and she took it with a grin. Then they put their Headless Hats back where they belonged and marched over to the rest of the dancing Weasleys. They were greeted with shouts and breathless laughter. Not too long after that, more of their friends and classmates stormed the platform, headless, to dance and cheer on Fred’s passing.

                The Weasley’s private memorial for Fred was much more subdued. It began in the living room in front of the fire, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley included. Harry, Hermione, Fleur, and even Angelina were there. Angelina couldn’t make herself leave George’s side, and nobody much questioned it. Grief was weird, and the more involved, the easier the load. They drank and shared more personal stories about Fred, laughing most of the time. Sobs occasionally broke out, and the person was consoled by those flanking them. George was very quiet, his head in Angelina’s lap, her hand massaging it. It was the first time in weeks that he wasn’t plastered to one of his brothers, and everyone seemed very relieved about it. Maybe it meant acceptance and healing. Once Mr. and Mrs. Weasley retired for the night, kissing each of their children and their friends before leaving, it became very obvious that there were a few too many people in attendance. Fleur’s gaze whipped to Harry’s, Harry’s to Hermione’s, and back to Fleur who tipped her head toward Angelina. Hermione lifted her chin, and the other two responded with a nod. Fleur whispered to Bill, hand cupping his neck and kissed him before going up the stairs. Harry simply squeezed Ginny’s hand and followed. Hermione did much the same with Ron, and then went over to Angelina, asking her if she’d like a bath and some clean clothes to sleep in. Thankfully, she took the hint and went with Hermione up to the bathroom. The Weasley children were left alone to mourn their fallen brother.


	3. Chapter 3

                They didn’t come up to bed that night. Hermione must have expected it because she still camped with Harry in the big bed, asking Angelina if she’d like to do the same. The bed was so large that no one would end up touching each other, so she agreed, maybe eager to have company. In an unexpected turn of events, Fleur had a rush of loneliness and also came into Ron’s room. The girls fell asleep quickly, hollowed out from the histrionic quality of the day, and Harry laid very still, wide awake, trying not to bother them too much.

                Sleep was difficult. He was plagued by visions and voices of the dead. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about it, but he had a strong suspicion that the visions were the last traces of Tom Riddle’s memory. They had been so tightly bound together at the end, so deeply enmeshed in each other’s psyches, that perhaps they’d traded memories, bits and pieces searing off into the other. Regardless, they were bloody and painful, and he’d wake crying and sweating, reaching for his wand. It didn’t matter who was there with him because in a way, Ginny was right. Eventually he would rejoin the dead, and they called to him, cold tendrils reaching out to him as he slept, speaking of numbness and rest and oblivion. Usually, he was more tired when he woke, no matter how he’d fallen asleep. Some nights, like that night, he would just lay awake with his eyes shut, and let his body be inert. He stopped thinking, but he didn’t sleep. Sometimes it was enough.

                Dawn came slowly, and his attention was caught by a soft snort from the doorway.

                Ginny was standing there in her pajamas, hip canted against the doorframe with an amused look to her face. When she saw he was awake and she had his attention, she nodded toward the three sleeping girls, “Do I need to be concerned about you starting a harem?” she teased. Harry scowled, rolling off the side of the bed to go over to her. He was sick of sitting still anyway.

                “Walk?” he asked quietly. She nodded. He slipped on his shoes and summoned hers from her room. The summer morning was warm enough that they didn’t need to change clothing. Once they stepped through the back door of the kitchen, Ginny slid her arm through Harry’s, leaning into him. They slipped through the garden, easily maneuvering the low stone fence to walk out into the fields along the orchard. The sun was very low in the horizon, just a sliver of light above the ground, which was blurred with fog, and the sky was a bluish gray.

                “Fred’s was the last of the funerals,” Harry muttered to her. He slanted his eyes to the top of her head, which rested on his arm. All he could see was bright red, nothing of her face.

                “Mum didn’t want any conflicts. She wanted everyone here.”

                “I don’t think anyone could have imagined being anywhere else. You think your Aunt Muriel was upset about George’s tribute?”

                “Livid,” she chuckled. “She’ll never attend another Weasley function so long as she lives,” she mimicked her aunt’s squawking intonations. Harry smiled weakly for her efforts, not in the mood to laugh. He felt her head shift on his shoulder, but she didn’t say anything for a long while. They walked a few aimless miles, taking turns occasionally, until Ginny pulled him along a footpath toward a pond. The sun was rising further, so Harry sent his patronus to Molly, just to let her know they were okay. If Ginny had any opinions on the matter, she kept them to herself, and chose to find a clear spot to sit on. But Harry was still feeling restless and jittery, he didn’t want to sit. He wanted to keep moving for a while. However, he was also very aware that if Ginny kept still for longer than a few moments, then she needed to say something. Something important to her. That being the case, Harry idled not too far away, picking up stones and skipping them along the water’s surface. He’d have to wait to get anything out of Ginny. He knew this because he could guess what she wanted to talk about, and it wasn’t their relationship. There was rarely a day when he could get away from his obligations to the ministry and families, that particular day being a glaring exception, and before that he’d been in such a heavy fog that she was lucky to get two words out of him before dinner. No, to Ginny’s mind there would be more important matters to discuss than the vague, limbo-nature of their relationship. Ginny had always been sure of him, even when he wasn’t capable of being sure of himself.

                In the end, she waited him out. Waited until his nerves settled, and his feathers lay flat, before she spoke. She waited to speak until he flung himself on the ground alongside her, arm outstretched and cushioning his head as he looked up at her. Resignation is what it was. Of all the Weasleys, Ginny was by far the most stubborn. She was just quieter about it. She’d wait until the earth stopped spinning if it meant getting the whole of his attention. When she did have it, she too laid down, taking his free hand in hers to play with his fingers, to trace the lines of his palms.

                “You’ll have to tell me eventually,” she told him evenly, without any subtext or emotional tone. It was just a statement. Not a request or a demand, just inevitability. Harry knew she was probably right. Knew what she meant, what she was referring to. Ginny put his hand down and turned on her side so that their eyes were level. “Not today, if you don’t want. Or tomorrow, or next week, or next month. Maybe not even when I graduate. Maybe when it’s not so raw?” She used a finger to trace down his cheek and jaw, then let her hand drop.

                “I want to…” he whispered, throat aching. His gut was trying to claw the words back into his belly, howling that they had escaped.

                “But?”

                “It’s a dead man’s story,” he mumbled inexplicably. He couldn’t say why he thought that, or why he suddenly fervently believed it to be true. Instead of trying to explain it, he shoved his face into the crook of his elbow, letting his glasses ride up his forehead.

                “And dead men tell no tales,” she whispered, mostly to herself. He wanted to laugh at that. Ron told him that when he was in council meetings or in court, Hermione would get antsy, making Ginny crazy. Ron had been taking the pair of them to a muggle cinema in London to keep them distracted. That way they were never too far out of reach from Harry, they were focused elsewhere, and they could meet Harry when he was finished. Ginny hadn’t mentioned anything, but the way she inserted certain expressions and muggle colloquialisms into conversations told him that she actually enjoyed it.

                “Do you—?” she cut herself off, biting down on her bottom lip. “You told me you died.”

                “Yes.”

                “Which you?” she whispered. He turned his head back, readjusting his glasses to see her properly. He wanted to be sure that he understood what she was asking. Because it was Ginny so it was important. She rolled her head to look up at the sky, inhaling deeply. “I mean…which _Harry_? Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived or….just _Harry_?” She was still speaking in metaphors, which meant she didn’t understand. Not really, and there was no way that she possibly could. Eventually, he would have to tell her.

                “I’m starting to understand that Harry Potter can’t die. He’s…more.”

                “Yeah.”

                “It was me, in the end. Just me, that died. I can’t explain it, but it felt right. It felt _better_ there. With them.”

                She let out a strangled sob and grabbed for his hand blindly, he gave it over. “So why come back?”

                “There were things I had to do.”

                “Tell me?”

                “I…Ginny, I just, I can’t. Not really. Not in the way…” He rolled to sit up, still holding her hand, the other tugging at the shagginess of his hair. “Do you know the story of the three brothers?”

                “From Beedle’s Bard? Sure, everyone does. Three brothers who cheat Death.”

                “It starts that way, but he gives them these gifts. Ones they pick out. And eventually those gifts kill them.”

                “That’s not how I remember it,” she said sitting up to meet his gaze, but she quickly looked away, down at his palm, tracing the lines. He knew many of her friends had been interested in Divination and palm reading. Maybe she knew how. Maybe she could _see_. She traced his Head Line, “The first was killed by an enemy.” And then she traced his Heart Line, “The second killed himself to be with his dead lover.” And then she traced his long Fate Line, the one that had perturbed Trelawney to no end, “But the last lived a long, happy life before he died. He gave his gift to his son, too, so that Death couldn’t find him.”

                She finally looked up at him with a watery smile, having no idea how accurate her summation truly was. “Yeah,” he responded, “Yeah, he did.”

                “Harry, does the story have something to do with Tom Riddle?”

                He shook his head and swallowed, “Dumbledore, actually. He, uh…He lied, Ginny, he didn’t trust me, not really. Not like he should have. So he lied.”

                “Dumbledore? Lied to you?”

                Snape’s horrified expression from the pensieve flashed through the front of his mind. “To a lot of people. He had good reason….” He shook his whole body, trying to push the ghosts away, get them off his back. “I have to start at the beginning.  If you want to know everything, all of it, I have to go back to the start.” Her brows furrowed.

                “You mean of last year? When you left?”

                He shook his head with a sigh, “The night my parents died.”

                “Harry, that’s—” But he cut her off.

                “It’s called Blood Magic. The thing that saved me when I was a baby. I don’t understand it, not really. But the basic fact is that my mother gave her life in exchange for mine. So I was protected. And Dumbledore figured the only way to seal the bond was to send me to my mother’s sister. He couldn’t touch me there.” But the Dursleys could. So, for the first time in the whole of his life, Harry talked about his childhood. Ron and Hermione had seen physical evidence of the abuse, had seen its effects, so he’d never needed to talk about it. They understood. If Dumbledore knew, then he’d convinced himself it was for the greater good. The pig had to be raised for slaughter. He didn’t mention that part. Not yet. He couldn’t.

                Instead he just talked about his cupboard, how he’d befriended mice and spiders. Times he remembered eating well. Times he hadn’t eaten at all. School. Dudley. Dudley’s hand-me-downs, and how he’d never had his own clothes until Hagrid showed up. He told her the best times were when they went on vacation without him. Or just went out without him. Harry told her everything that they’d ever said about him and his parents, and told her what he’d thought of those things, what he’d made up or imagined to be true. She interjected with angry comments or probing questions every so often, but it was never enough to disrupt his narrative. It was noon when he stopped talking. His throat was raw and his head hurt. He hadn’t even begun to tell her about first year.

                But Ginny didn’t seem to mind. She had that hard, blazing look she always did when she was focused on him. Frightening really. When he stopped talking, she nodded curtly, mumbled an okay, and then crawled into his lap. He didn’t have time to speak much less protest the action. Because the moment she was steadied, she was kissing him. It was sharp and short and sweet, and Harry was so keyed up and overwhelmed that tears shook loose and he had to pull back to breathe properly again. She nosed at his check and knocked her forehead gently against his.

                “I love you.”

                What? He really did pull back that time to look at her, to actually read her expression. But he couldn’t get anything from it besides determination. Which was Ginny’s baseline, and thus unhelpful. His hands tightened on her arms.

                “Ginny, you can’t just…You don’t…”

                “I do.” She cupped his face, forcing him to look at her directly. “I really do. And I told myself I’d wait to say it to you properly. When this was all behind us and sorted out. After we got through confessions and storytelling, and whatever else we need to do before this feels right again but…” Her eyes darted up to the scar. People usually stared at it. Openly, without remorse or embarrassment because it was a symbol and Harry Potter their object, so it didn’t matter how he felt about it. Others shied away, ignoring it completely, not wanting to seem rude. Not wanting to understand what it meant. Ginny’s gaze didn’t feel like either of those things. She fingered at the fringe covering it, and then pressed a kiss over it. It felt a little like redemption. Ginny maneuvered herself out of his arms in order to stand up, and held out her hand to him. She latched onto him the moment he was upright, burying her face in his chest. He felt wetness on his shirt. “I just realized no one’s ever said it to you before, have they?” He didn’t respond to that so she leaned back, arms still around him, “Well, regardless of what happens, I’m saying it and I mean it.” Harry’s whole face was burning up, extremely embarrassed. Did she want him to say it back? He never had the chance to find out because she pulled out of his arms and held out a hand.

                “I’m hungry, let’s go back.”

                There really was no arguing with that. So they started their trek back to the Burrow. It wouldn’t take them very long, as Ginny knew every shortcut, and they had been meandering and going in circles on their way out to the pond.

                “So I have an idea,” she said slowly after a while. His only response was a hum because he wouldn’t comment on her having _ideas_. “I’m getting the impression that everything leading up to the battle is very complex and goes back a few years.” He hummed in affirmation. “So maybe, every once in a while, and I don’t care what time, we go back to the pond. And you tell me another piece of the story.”

                “That could take a while.”

                “We’ve time enough,” she told him softly, leaning into his side. “And in exchange, you can ask me anything you want about anything you want and I’ll answer.” He smirked and she slapped his chest, “Perv.” She swayed away just so. “There’s one condition though. And it’s a doozy.”

                If she asked him not to tell Ron and Hermione, he would struggle with it, but he’d probably manage. Maybe. Hermione got pushy when she wanted to know something. He couldn’t imagine what other conditions she might have. After all, it was about what _she_ wanted to know. He was reluctant to begin with. He sighed and relented anyway, “Name it.”

                “When we’re at the pond, while we’re talking there, that’s when you can visit the dead. That’s where we’ll visit Just Harry. You can stay with the dead as long as you like when we’re there.”

                He swallowed hard. “And when we’re not?”

                “When we’re not, you’re Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Who survived, and who is living and is among the living.”

                “I—” It was her turn to cut him off.

                “Have been a ghost. Since the day you woke up. We both know that.”

                “Yes.”

                She nodded, looking straight ahead. “I don’t know what will happen when I’m away at school, but…but this will be a start, okay? Like practice.”

                Harry swallowed back the voices, the words that weren’t his. His eyes burned for it. “Gin, I’m not sure how…I don’t know if I can do that if you’re not here.” He wasn’t trying to get her to stay or to change her mind. He didn’t want her to. He was trying to be honest. When she left, he was going to have trouble finding reasons to get up and keep moving. The trials wouldn’t last forever. But there was Teddy and there would be Auror training.

                “You’ll have to try,” she said gently. “You have to want to be here, Harry.” He nodded, giving her a raspy, _I’ll try_ in response, and she squeezed his hand. “Good enough for me.”

                And so it went.


	4. Chapter 4

                   The rest of the summer flew by pretty quickly. Ron and Hermione went off to find her parents, and brought them back, memories fully restored, within two weeks. They were confused and unhappy with Hermione’s decision. It took a lot of apologizing and time alone with them to get their trust back, but she did. After a month or so they even invited Ron over for dinner, as a peace offering. Hermione bore the whole of it just as well as you’d expect. Having Ron around made it easier. Harry and Ginny continued to make time to go out to the pond. He told her the whole of it as it had happened, as he’d discovered it. In a way, that made it easier because they both knew how it ended, and he knew that the last piece was a long way off from her knowing about it. But their conversations quickly stopped being about Tom Riddle and his quest for immortality and became something else. Just Harry, telling the person he loved most, his story. The good and the bad and the ugly of it. He had so many stories with Ron and Hermione, and Quidditch, and detentions, and teachers, and visits with Hagrid. Sometimes he’d just tell her about nights spent with the boys in the dormitories. Normal bloke nights, just talking. And lovely, amazing, brilliant Ginny never rushed him. Never said he was distracting her from the truth or avoiding it. Because she realized, a lot sooner than he did, that he’d never had anyone to tell these stories to before. Ron and Hermione knew all of these stories, they were a part of them. He couldn’t confide in anyone else. Remus and Sirius had been in and out of his life so quickly that he’d never gotten the chance. Ginny Weasley was the only one to know Harry Potter’s stories. Even the ones where he’d put dungbombs in Ron’s trunks, or the night he and Dean stole all of Seamus’ socks and soaked them in water. Stupid, stupid stories. But they were his. And when it came time for her and Hermione to go back to school, he’d not even told her half of it.

*

                Ron watched his sister say her goodbyes to his best friend. Like everyone else, he’d expected them to get back together right away. They were never very far away from each other. They were much more relaxed with one another than with almost anyone else. Ron didn’t understand it, and he didn’t really want to. As much as he’d yelled and balked against the idea of his best friend being with his baby sister, there was also a certain appeal to it that couldn’t be denied. Ginny was a good ally to have; Ginny cared a lot about loads of things, including Harry. Ron wouldn’t have to worry that he wasn’t being taken care of if Ginny were around permanently.

                “I’m worried about him too,” Hermione muttered, leaning into him. Ron wanted to grumble out that she should have stayed in Divination because she was a bloody mind reader, but he kept his gob shut to save his bollocks from a nasty fate. “And Ginny’s very tight lipped about everything…”

                Ron grunted, “Then she’s agreed to something she doesn’t like.” His girlfriend arched her brows and he shrugged. “Doesn’t want to be criticized. Does it all the time.”

                “Idiots,” she muttered with a rueful shake of her head. “After everything we’ve…”

                “Mione…”

                “Oh, I know,” she grumbled and then turned to wrap her arms around his middle. “Promise me you’ll look after him.”

                “Course I will. Been doing it for ages.” His arms wrapped around her back and he buried his face in her hair. This was a position he could get used to, he just wished it wasn’t because they were saying goodbye. As brutal as the separation would be on him, Ron was far more worried about her being at the castle, being around survivors, and generally just coping with it without him there to ameliorate the effects. He didn’t bring it up though because she would remind him that he was perfectly able to return to school with her, and then they wouldn’t have to be separated. Though, she would say it reluctantly. Hermione knew his reasons, knew he couldn’t be where Fred had died. Knew that he couldn’t sit at a desk and revise without going after Dolohov. But Ron had quickly called a truce between them before things got out of hand. Hermione felt guilty enough for going back to school while Ron and Harry and Neville avenged their friends. Harry had immediately shut that track down, telling Hermione that finishing her education properly and bringing vitality back to Hogwarts was the best revenge anyone could have on Tom Riddle. He’d wanted the castle to burn, and he’d tried his damnedest to keep muggleborns from their right to a magical education. He’d said it was good and right and best if she went back. Ron had never loved the bloke more.

                “I’m more worried about you, love,” he pulled back, his hand drifting down to her forearm where the faded scars still screamed at them. She treated him with a fond but exasperated frown. “I am,” he insisted with a chuckle, “and you can’t stop me.” She pinched his back lightly and tucked her face against his shoulder, the scarred one.

                “The nightmares aren’t so bad anymore.”           

                “But you’ll go to Pomfrey for a sleeping draught when they are, right? I know they’re worse when you don’t have tabs on Harry…” Hermione pulled back with a pinched smile, her hands coming to cup his face before bringing him down to kiss her.

                “And you,” she murmured against his lips. “They’re worse when you’re not next to me.” That tone made him tighten his arms around her, and he heard her hum, leaning on him more. No doubt they were quite a sight for those passing by, and for all of the photographers stalking them and Harry (poor sod), but he couldn’t give a damn, not when he had Hermione so close. Her hands were caught between them, their position suddenly reminiscent of their first kiss. Ron’s lips quirked up at the memory, and the glint in Hermione’s eyes told him she her thoughts were the same. She kissed him hard and quick once more before launching into a speech about what he needed to be including in his letters. She needed updates on Harry and his parents, and Ron was supposed to be seeing her parents on Sundays for tea. Her father was supposed to be seeing a muggle doctor soon and she wanted to know how he seemed and what he looked like because he had the tendency not to tell her everything when it came to his health. She insisted he go with Harry at least once or twice a month to check in on Andromeda, as they had been doing all summer. But Ginny was the one who went all of the time, and Hermione wanted reports back. He also needed to coordinate with Fleur about keeping tabs on George and Percy. Charlie had his dragons, but George and Percy only had their work and they were outliers. Somebody needed to ensure they were still coming round since Molly was in no fit state to nag her sons.

                Hermione’s list for Harry was…extensive. And not for the first time, Ron sorely regretted leaving them that day while they were on the run. It must have been traumatizing, having only the one person to watch your back. Especially when it was Harry with those voices in his head. Hermione once said it was like ripping a leg off of a four-legged table. It could stand, but it couldn’t hold anything. Useless. But Ron smiled the whole time she talked, knowing for a fact that there was a long list of these reminders waiting for him in his (their) room. He grabbed up her trunk, hauling it along with them as they walked. The prefects and Head Boy and Girl had their pre-Feast meetings in the last car so they would be prepared when they got to school. Hermione and Justin had gone to meet McGonagall in Diagon Alley the day before to discuss school business, so they knew everything already and would be distributing schedules and assignments. Hermione was still babbling about Harry’s eating habits when he loaded her trunk. Damn thing was clunky, and he sorely missed that little bag of hers. He wondered if she was taking it with her. He knew for a fact that Harry had offered her the map, and Ron could only assume that she’d taken it.

                Hermione was winding down a little when Harry, Ginny, and the rest of the Weasley clan came to huddle around them.

                “Whatcha talking about?” Harry asked cheekily, like he was interrupting some intimate moment between them.

                “ _You_ ,” they shot back in tandem, making Harry jerk back. Ginny laughed and pushed him so he could hug Hermione. Which he did with flourish, sweeping her up around the waist and lifting her off her feet. Ron stood next to them as they spoke quietly to each other, rolling his eyes. Saps. Ginny sidled over, knocking hips with him.

                “You’ll keep an eye on her, yeah?” Ron asked, his voice hushed. “When she’s feeling…you know? She overdoes it, trying to prove she’s not.” _Oh I love you, you stupid prat!_ They heard Hermione say affectionately when Harry dropped her to her feet. Ron had reacted poorly the first time she said it after they got together. He just wasn’t used to her saying it to him. But after he had himself a good sulk and Hermione apologized profusely if he’d misunderstood, Ginny had thwacked him over the head. She then proceeded to inform him that Harry had never been told he was loved growing up, not like they had. No one said it to him, and she swore she’d murder anyone who denied him one more person saying it. This led to a very awkward conversation between Ron and Harry, one that was long overdue. Both of them blushed head to toe, gritted out that they loved each other too and shook hands on it. Hermione and Ginny had been spying from the next room and giggled themselves into a stupor. So in the present, he just shot them both fond looks, a tight-lipped smile on his face. Harry was embarrassingly muttering back that, yes, yes he loved her too.

                “I know. I’ve already sorted things with the Patils. We’ll watch her.” _Patils_ , completely forgot. Yes, the twins would help Ginny with anything, especially Hermione. It was weird…and nice, knowing that it wasn’t just the three of them on their own anymore. There were more eyes and hands in the mix; the load wasn’t so heavy. Ginny was looking a little sheepish, a little hesitant. “And you’ll…” She tipped her head in Harry’s direction, “You know?”

                “Don’t know how to do anything else. Trust me, I’ve specific instructions on what to include in my letters. If you’re worried or whatever, just ask her.”

                “Thanks, big brother.”

                “Thank _you,_ baby sister.” They smirked at each other and hugged quickly. Chaos erupted when the other Weasley brothers and Fleur decided it was their turn with their sister and deputy sister. Both were swept off their feet and teased and told to behave themselves. Mr. Weasley gave them warm hugs and Mrs. Weasley smacked kisses to their cheeks and cried a lot. Ron finally wedged himself back between his family and his girlfriend to kiss her before she jumped on the train. Everyone else started to head for the apparating spots or floo stations while Harry walked Ginny to a car further up the line. But they were going back to the office, so Ron waited. He was maybe the only one who witnessed their short kiss and Ginny’s tears before she fled to the safety of the train


	5. Chapter 5

                 Through the school year, Harry and Ginny kept up through letters. He was limited to a story a letter. Some were about Tom. Some were about Dumbledore. Most weren’t. But it still didn’t feel like evasion. He didn’t see her again until Christmas, and even then it was short-lived. The family came together for Christmas and Boxing Day, but then the girls were needed back for repairs and school business, and he was needed back for Auror training and testing. There just was never enough time. They were accelerating him and Ron through the training program, so he justified it that way. The pair of them were needed out there, hunting the remaining death eaters and outstanding threats to the new regime. He was brought in and consulted and still occasionally required at the Wizengamot for testimony, statements, or generally for his opinion. These were grating days, days that he didn’t write to Ginny, because more than half of them treated him like he was a child while expecting him to be a poster boy. Others thought it was shameful he played the poster boy at all. But Harry simply didn’t see it that way. On those days, he didn’t have the energy to explain Tom Riddle and Dumbledore and Barty Crouch and Severus Snape to anyone, Ginny included.

                He and Ron leased a flat in London, wanting to be out from Molly’s thumb. Having the independence helped their morale significantly. They ate out or ordered take out almost every day and neither of them could do a proper household charm to save their lives, but it was theirs. They liked it. And they loved training. Ron was lazy, for sure, but he’d always been pretty active. Harry assumed for the longest time that he’d be a Quidditch player. Well, back when he assumed that Dumbledore would kill Lord Voldemort and everything would turn out for the best. Not too many years ago now, though. He loved the nothingness of it. Harry was able to focus all of his attention and strength on pushing his muscles to their limit, to learning to sharpen his reflexes and throw spells faster. The lectures on protocols were, obviously, boring and difficult to get through, but at least it was practical information. He and Ron made a game of it, the loser having to do something awful like dishes or toilet cleaning. It worked.

                And Ginny was his phantom limb.  For 90% of his day, he didn’t think too much about her. The weight of missing her was light enough to carry around. She wasn’t dead or hurting or miserable, she just wasn’t physically present. He’d had a year of worse. But when he closed his eyes, and the ghosts howled at him, he missed her so much his body ached. Her routine for time spent among the dead had worked. Most of the time, he could grin and bear, muddle through his day without too much thought. He could be himself, fully immersed self, among the living. Unfortunately that meant that his time with the dead was spent alone at night. And no Ginny. On those nights, he was restless and antsy. He didn’t want to sit still and see their faces and hear their accusations rolling in one after another. At the Burrow, it had been easy enough to slip away and walk through the fields. The house was big enough that he didn’t disturb anyone.

                But his flat share with Ron? Not so much.

                The first time, Harry got away easily and unnoticed. But it had shaken Ron in his sleep enough to need to wake and check on him. The next morning had not been pleasant. The second time he left a note, and Ron growled that London still wasn’t safe for him to be walking around all alone. And so, the third time, Harry woke Ron up and Ron accompanied him. The walking was aimless, just as it had been with Ginny. But there was no need to talk or to swap stories with Ron; Ron was a main character in all of his stories. He knew every detail. So they kept on in silence until Harry was calmed down or worn out enough to apparate back to the flat. Once he started walking regularly, the ghosts seemed to be mollified.

*

                After four months of nightmares, Harry finally confided in Luna. She was the only person who openly admitted to them. Who was wary and avoidant but not afraid of what they meant. Luna's experience taught her that the privacy of your inner world was nothing to fear. The expression of that inner world was what caused the problems.

                Her recommendation was a mind healer, and it took another two months to convince him and another month after that to find someone suitable. Muggle therapy wasn't an option for Harry, as there was no consistent method of translating his experiences. He'd spend more time lying and backtracking than doing any real work. The problem with someone from the wizarding community was discretion. There were plenty of privacy laws that would keep them from discussing anything in great detail, but that didn't prevent them from having pictures taken as he entered and exited the building. That didn't prevent them from taking notes or recording conversations that they could release when he was no longer a patient. That didn't prevent them from letting slip that Harry was a patient thereby summoning every pap and fan girl to their office.

                Luna made all of the inquiries and had no difficulty asking frank questions about morals and ethics. She was very thorough in her research, going so far as to interview colleagues, receptionists, and former patients when she could find them. Just when Harry was beginning to feel that the whole thing was a bust, Luna flopped into a chair across from him and said there was nothing for it he would have to speak to a muggle.

                Because it was Luna, she didn't find just any old muggle. One of her former classmates, a muggleborn, had an older brother who worked as a muggle psychiatrist in muggle London, specializing in trauma. Most of his clientele had served in the British military. Luna also informed Harry that her classmate, a Ravenclaw named Ashley Cantrelll, had died during the war. She'd been among those to not return to Hogwarts, had been sent to a safe house per Potterwatch's arrangements. But the house had been compromised, another student, a half blood, had been tortured for information and was told his family would be spared. His mother had been killed anyway, and it was rumored he'd left the country for a sanitarium in Portugal.

                It turned out that Harry actually liked Tony Cantrell. He was a dodgy middle aged man with a fondness for earl gray and potted plants. His office was cozy and filled with too many books and he wore oversized sweaters and loafers which had seen some mileage.

                The first thing Harry noted was that he was his parents' age. The age they would have been if they'd lived. He had the energy Sirius would have had if he hadn't wasted away in azkaban for 12 years. He had the wisdom that Remus would have grown into. He had a distinctly mischievous twinkle in his eye that reminded him of Dumbledore before Tom Riddle returned to the flesh. And so Harry at once understood why Luna had selected him. Because nothing Luna ever did was by mistake or mere coincidence. She had a predilection for seeing into the heart of things: Harry Potter would confess all to someone who reminded him of his beloved dead.

                Harry paid him double his fee and went once a week midday. Afterwards he would meet Luna for lunch. Naturally after the first month, the press assumed they were having an affair, meeting up for scandalous afternoon rendezvous. Harry preferred that, knowing no one would believe it, to the alternative of having his therapy exposed to the public.

                In spite of it all, it was weeks before Harry discussed anything of merit. Secretiveness was his primary instinct. Don't be too loud, don't be too obvious, don't attract attention because that means the belt or getting locked in the cupboard. Don't talk about your doubts, don't show your fear, don't tell them your plans because if you do someone else you love will get hurt. Someone could be a traitor, someone could be a spy. If he finds out, he'll kill you this time. Don't tell them what you are because they'll despise you. Tough habit to break.

                But Tony turned out to be remarkably patient and easygoing. When Harry didn’t want to talk, Tony talked. He told him stories about his travels, trips to the continent or to America. He'd spent some time conducting research and teaching at a hospital in mid-America. Somewhere flat with a lot of small towns. But he'd loved it and loved the people there. He didn’t talk about patients or the illnesses he treated. But he didn’t need to, he had plenty of stories to offer. Harry idly wondered if they were all true. Of course, Harry eventually had to reciprocate. It was an inevitable compulsion. When someone shares with you, eventually you want to contribute, generate discussion, convey understanding. Basically, Tony was good at his job.

                Harry started out talking about the Dursleys. It was as good a starting point as any. He told Tony about the strong line of orphans that had been created. Himself, Riddle, Neville in a way, now Teddy. When asked, he didn't know how he felt about it. Just that it had happened, and he wondered if Tom would have turned out differently if he'd had his own Mrs. Weasley. The short answer was possibly yes, most likely no. It was a question of choice and traits; Tom used his anger to hurt people so as to feel powerful. Harry used his anger to keep going, to stop the hurting so that he didn't have to be powerful. When Harry demanded a better explanation, Tony started talking about abuse and its effects on the mind. According to Dumbledore's personal accounts, Riddle had been hurting other children without remorse from a very young age. This was compounded with the fact that he'd been grossly misunderstood by his muggle caretakers. They didn't know what he was and presumed he was bad. From Harry's accounts, the Dursleys knew precisely what he was and hated him for it. But they had a healthy fear of it. It was simply a different attitude. A different kind of fear. It helped that Harry wasn't what they called a sociopath, someone who could only experience pleasure when inflicting pain. Had Riddle been in a nurturing environment from the get go, he might have learned to control and channel his impulses. Instead he was abused and neglected, ignored. So he acted out as he saw fit.  
Harry didn’t see how it was any different. Tony admitted there were minimal differences, that Riddle's mind had been warped since birth.

                The next easiest step was to talk about Ron and Hermione. They had been the whole of his world for such a long time that it came naturally to him. Which progressed into talking about the Weasleys and families. His parents. Remus, Sirius, Dumbledore, and all the others. His former headmaster and mentor proved to be the most troublesome topic by far. Though there were many who could boast that claim; there were none who remained unaffected by his acquaintance or friendship. Even his brother. Snape held up the end of the line. In fact, Snape was the only character in his life story that he was absolutely certain of; they'd hated each other, but Snape's love for his mother proved to be stronger, even if it was warped. Snape had never occupied the space of right and wrong, it had always been what he could and could not do. What had to be done. Informing on Harry's whereabouts, killing Dumbledore, protecting Draco, protecting the school, giving Harry his memories. Right or wrong, these things had to be done in order to end Lord Voldemort and kill Tom Riddle once and for all. Tony was quite fascinated by that relationship, by Harry's take on it.

                "He was a sanctimonious git with a chip on his shoulder. But he was a brave one. He dove into the dark arts willingly to save my mum, honor her memory. But he kept hold of his humanity in the end. He didn't let it beat him. Not the way it beat Riddle. Snape could have killed me and my dad himself. Tortured my mum, he chose to try to save her. Save all of us. I wonder if she knew that, what he'd been willing to do for her sake. He wasn't a particularly nice man. Nor was he kind. But he was a good one. Maybe if he'd lived...if he'd been given another chance to live in the open..."

                "That kind of thinking isn't productive Harry, it's also not very healthy."

                "I think about things like that a lot."

                "What-ifs?"

                "So many people I cared about died because of a split second decision. Tom could have just as easily gone after Neville Longbottom as me. He fit the prophecy's parameters."

                "But he chose you. He thought your parents to be more of a threat."

                "I guess," he sniffed, "But Neville lost his parents anyway. It's different but..."

                "Maybe if they had died instead, your parents would still be alive?" Harry shrugged. "Or maybe your parents would have been tortured to insanity and you would have been sent to live with your godfather. Or maybe they all would have been killed when Neville was. Yourself included." Harry swallowed. "Do you see what I mean about it not being healthy? The list of possibilities is infinite. A thousand choices that could have been made and remade to change everything that led you to..." He gestured around, "Right here. Men grow bitter and hateful that way. I imagine Tom did the same thing. Except he thought forward instead of backward."

                "Probably right."

                "Probably."

                Harry picked at his nails, "I don't know how to stop though. Even when I was little I'd think about it. My parents living. Coming to get me. What if I'd killed Peter Pettigrew when I had the chance...Sirius wouldn't have..."

                "You would be in Azkaban. And Sirius wouldn't have wanted that for you. Especially knowing how you respond to dementors."

                "You're pretty knowledgeable for a muggle."

                "Ashely always loaned me her books. It was very interesting reading."

                Harry looked down, "Do you ever think about the what ifs? If I had done more, let myself be killed sooner...Ashely might have lived."

                “By that line of logic, you would be held accountable for hundreds of deaths at the hands of others.” Harry nodded wordlessly. “And you honestly believe that should be the case?” Harry just looked away, inhaling a little more deeply than he would have liked. “A man named Fenrir Grayback—”

                “He’s not a _man_ ,” Harry snarled out, cutting him off.

                Tony gestured, indicating that he’d allow Harry at least that much. “He killed Ashley. And from what I’m told, his beliefs had very little to do with it. He was sick. I imagine that he killed many more people than just my sister?” Harry could only lift his chin. “In such a case, the logical path to follow is that he would have killed a lot of people whether or not Tom Riddle ever gave him the order, your involvement notwithstanding.”

                That was something he couldn’t actually argue. Fenrir had attacked a four year old Remus and turned him. Riddle had only just managed to collar him, keep him on a leash. Who knew what kind of damage he’d done in the long run. But Harry stayed quiet, he didn’t want to argue about his culpability. There was plenty of blame to spread around.

                “Harry,” Tony said firmly, leaning forward and trying to force eye contact. Out of respect for his counselor, Harry graced him with his undivided attention, awaiting the platitudes that would be forthcoming, the thing to remember, the attitudes which he should adopt. Everyone had them; they followed on the tail end of their opinions. Harry was met with warm brown eyes, ones that looked so sad and weighed down, but were lit up in confusion and fury.

                “Harry, you were _just a boy_.”


	6. Chapter 6

        The best part of his week easily was meeting up with Luna in Diagon Alley after those sessions. Her quiet presence was a balm for his overwrought nerves after meeting with Tony. Since most of the students were back in school and the Wizengamot was back in session, the streets were less crowded. They would meet on Thursdays, just after the lunch rush. They would get their late meal at the chip shop near Fortesque’s and Luna would jabber on about her work with the Magical Naturalists Association. She’d received Outstandings on all of her NEWTs without going back for her seventh year, and had gone straight on to her post graduate education. As was to be expected, she was experiencing some difficulties with her peers and colleagues. The root of the problem seemed to be the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. She’d taken a very definitive stance on their existence and thus split the Association. Her main goal was to make the peace, but no one seemed to appreciate her efforts.

         Harry thought she was amazing. At first, she’d wanted to see him because of her own nightmares about him dying. This wasn’t uncommon. It seemed he got letters from his friends and schoolmates every other day asking after his health and well-being. The battle had been a shock to them all. He agreed to see Luna because, for one, Luna would find him anyway. For another, Luna didn’t ask too many questions, and she absolutely didn’t bring up Tony. At all. Which was more than just a relief. He didn’t have any intention of telling people about his sessions. Not even Ginny. Besides, Luna always had something interesting to talk about that had nothing to do with dark wizards and wars. When she did talk about those things, it was in reference to herself, and Harry was more than willing to listen.

          They were walking back to their respective work places when Harry stopped short in front of the Menagerie. It was just like he remembered it back before third year when they’d gone with Hermione to get Crookshanks. He was pretty sure that the same cranky black cat was in the window. In all likelihood he walked by it at least once or twice a day, but he’d ignored it as much as he possibly could until it became habit.

          “Have you thought about getting another owl, Harry?” Luna asked from beside him. She’d stopped when he did, staring up at the shop too. They must have looked like quite the pair standing there like that.

         “No,” he answered her honestly, and then not so honestly followed up with, “I’m not sure that I want to.” Oh, he was plenty sure about it. He absolutely did not want another owl. Having Hedwig, his first friend, his first real birthday present, his beloved pet and confidante, had been a miracle in and of itself. But losing her had ripped a hole in him. She’d died protecting him, and it made it all the worse. “I just don’t want it to seem like I’m replacing her.”

          Beside him, Luna hummed, “I don’t think that’s possible, actually. Hedwig was an exceptionally unique and gifted bird. Replacing her would be like trying to find one of your snitches in the dark. A happy accident.”

          “But what if I don’t like the next owl as much? Maybe I’ll hate it.”

          “Maybe. But you wouldn’t choose an owl you didn’t like. And anyway, love doesn’t work that way.”

          “What do you mean?” he asked, looking down at a large gray-ish toad sitting out in a cage. He stuck a finger through the rungs to stroke it between the eyes. It belched loudly, making him jump. Luna had become fascinated with a niffler sitting in the window; when she tilted her head, it mimicked her until Luna was bent over with her nostrils right-side up, and the niffler had done the same. Harry just shook his head and sighed when he noticed people moving to the other side of the street.

          “I mean,” Luna said standing straight up again, “that love isn’t something that you can replace. You can really only add to it. Because even if the object is gone, the love is still there. Kind of like you with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.”

          “I don’t follow.”

           “Well…” She raised her arms, splaying her hands out and wriggling her fingers so that the niffler would do the same. She giggled happily when it did so. “Your parents died, and they aren’t physically with us anymore, but you still love them very much. But Mr. and Mrs. Weasley took you in and cared for you, almost like they adopted you. And you love them too. Loving your parents still doesn’t mean that you love the Weasleys less. A different kind of love, maybe, but not lesser. So it’s an addition, not a replacement.”

           Harry smiled, “Luna, you’re the best at explaining things.”

           “Not the best,” Luna countered with a very gratified smile, “But I do it quite well, I think.”

           “Well,” Harry shoved his hands in his pockets, looking up at the sign one last time. “I don’t think I’ll get another owl at any rate. The Ministry has plenty that I can use. Ginny has Pig, now that Ron’s got himself that big brute, Merlin.”

           “Someday then,” Luna chirped, turning to take his arm and lead him away from the shop. “It would be very sad if you never loved an animal the way you loved Hedwig again. Every pet should be loved like that.”

           “You know, Luna, I definitely agree.”  
*  
           Neville is the one who finally convinces him to visit the Dursleys. They were at the Leaky, being shielded from the public by the lovely Hannah Abbott. Harry was taking the piss because she tossed a glance at Neville about every ten seconds, like she was checking to make sure he was still there.

           “You should go for it, Nev,” Ron said around his beer, “Hannah’s fit and pretty cool. Mione says she wants to be a Healer.”

           “That right?”

           Ron nodded sagely, “And with all these birds lusting after you, you oughta go for the nice ones.”

           Harry cackled, “That’s awfully mature coming from you.”

           “Naw, that’s all Hermione. I say he should shag everything comin’ ‘is way. Reap it while it’s sowin’.”

           “And there’s the Ron we know and love,” Neville laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Should’ve known not even Hermione could make you less of a randy tosser.”

            “I’ve got to live vicariously through someone haven’t I? Since Harry’s decided to live like a monk.”

             Harry elbowed him. He wasn’t a monk. He’d been out with a couple of girls. Nothing serious, very casual, but all they were interested in was Harry’s celebrity status. He hadn’t spoken with either of them again. Besides, when he wasn’t working, he was writing Ginny, walking or trying to sleep. There wasn’t room for much else. His letters to and from Ginny were what kept him sane. She was such a gifted writer, editorializing and commenting on everything from Quidditch matches to stupid conversations in the Great Hall. She was pithy and funny and perceptive as hell. In the span of a few months she predicted three couples, two break ups, and several more “epiphanies.” She would tell him about the boys she accompanied to Hogsmeade and the younger students she was fond of. But every time she ended a letter, she said she missed him terribly and that she hoped to hear from him soon. She always signed off with an “I love you.” Terribly confusing, actually, because she was dating other people and they weren’t, in any sense of the word, together. Harry decided not to overthink it and to absolutely not discuss it with Hermione, who would enable his broodiness. So all he could do was hit Ron for it.

             “She is kind of pretty…” Neville mused from the other side of Ron. Poor Neville. Those days, he was getting more attention than he could handle. After Harry and a few models and athletes, Neville was one of wizarding society’s most eligible bachelors. Gossip rags were relentless in their pursuit for juicy details, and the girls were equally dogged in their crusades for his attention. Neville ducked and dodged as much as humanly possible, but he still there were dozens of photos of him with girls pawing at him or dangling off of his arms. He couldn’t spend time with Luna, Cho, Hermione, Katie or Angelina or Alicia without someone positing some kind of twisted orgy scenario or just your average illicit affairs. It embarrassed the hell out of Neville who had to explain himself to his gran on a fairly regular basis. He’d even enlisted Harry’s help, and they’d spent an evening trying to convince her to ignore certain publications all together, as there was never any truth to it.  
Ron’s snort of derision pulled Harry from his thoughts.

             “She’s fit, Nev, and everyone knows it. Specially the blokes around here. Did you hear that old coot Osborne? Talking ‘bout a bird that way…smarmy git.”

             “Anyway,” Neville said, rolling his eyes, “Harry, Dedalus was saying that he dropped in on your aunt and uncle last week.”

             “What on earth for?” Ron asked incredulously when Harry stayed quiet.

             Neville shrugged, “Just a follow-up to make sure everything was all right. Shacklebolt wanted it in his report, totally routine.” Harry just grunted, taking a sip of his beer. Neville leaned forward looking a little surprised. “Thought you might be more interested. Didn’t you read his report?”

             “No,” Harry grumbled.

             “Why would he?” Ron followed up. Ron was possibly the only person more ardent in his hatred for than Dursleys than Harry. George was a close second. Ginny and Hermione hadn’t really interacted with them, not directly, so they were always hopeful that there might be room for some reconciliation. Ron knew better.

             “Well they’re his family, ain’t they?” Neville shot back. “His mum’s sister and all. Cared enough to keep ‘em safe…”

              Harry raised a finger, “But not enough to drop in for a chat.”

             “I find that hard to believe, coming from you,” Neville griped.

             Harry just scowled, “They don’t want to see me, Nev. That’s what you don’t understand. They hate me. I ruined their lives, according to them, ruined their reputation or whatever.” He grimaced. “Only people in the country, too.” Harry drew his mouth down, nudging Ron, “Might be refreshing having a door slammed in my face, eh?”

             “Certainly’d deflate the enormous head you can’t fit through the door no more.” Neville laughed. Harry was still damn flummoxed by the attention, even after all that time. He never used it to his advantage either, preferred muggle places. Every time someone did him a favor, he was excessively surprised and grateful. Ron used their names to open every door possible, and he was enjoying it for now.

            “There’s nothing for it. Better to let it go, trust me.”

            “Well,” Neville started thoughtfully, he took a long drink of his beer, leaning more on the bar, until he finished it. “If it were me? I’d at least try with my mum’s sister. There’s a whole load of things I don’t know about my mum. She doesn’t have any family left that knew her as a girl. Gran knew her pretty well when she was at school, but…s’not the same. She doesn’t know the kind of stuff a sister could tell me.” He and Tony never discussed the Dursleys anymore. Not because Tony thought it was unimportant, but because Harry outright refused. Subconsciously, he knew Tony would make the same argument as Neville. Harry didn’t have any good arguments against Tony. Harry heard Ron grunt and shot him a look. A foul one. Harry knew that noncommittal tone of grunt. It was the one where Harry was wrong, but Ron wouldn’t say so because he didn’t want to be the bad guy. But, being Ron, he couldn’t let the moment slip by without comment.

             “Something to add, Ronald?”

             Ron let his head hang with a long sigh, “He’s not...wrong…entirely.”

             Neville raised his glass to him, “Thanks for the resounding support, Weasley.” And wasn’t Neville getting sassy? “On that note,” he set the glass back down and tossed a couple of galleons on the bar, “I’m gonna go chat up Hannah.” They watched their friend go without saying anything, but were silently cheering him on. Awkward with attention, he definitely was, but since he’d been forced to face down a giant snake, Neville wasn’t as nervous as before. He strode easily over to the barmaid who greeted him with a wide smile and a flirty jut of her hip.

             “And he scores,” Ron muttered sardonically.

             “You would have a lot sooner if you weren’t such a prat.” Ron just hummed. “Do you really think I should go see them? After everything, just walk up and say Hey, people who permitted me to live in the same house but hated my guts every moment, tell me some stories about my mother who you thought was a monster! How do you see that playing out?” Ron was thoroughly chastened and thoroughly red because of that biting tone. He bolstered himself by taking a swallow of beer.

              “Look, I’m not saying it’s a good idea. You know how much I hate them. But maybe now that they haven’t seen you in a while, and you’re not a skinny little twat, maybe Tuney’s got some stuff of your mum’s. Yer dad’s stuff’s all in the vault, right? But maybe Dumbledore gave stuff to your aunt.” Harry shook his head. “Well he gave you to them, so it makes sense!” Harry couldn’t actually argue with that; Dumbledore’s reasoning on a lot of things had been convoluted. “All’s I’m saying, is that there’s only one person still alive who could tell you what kinda jammies yer mum wore as a kid, or the stupid things she did to get out of chores or you know, whatever, things like that. My mum talks to my uncles’ kids about them every chance she gets. Uncle Fabian’s daughters love it, eat it up, cause they never got to know him.”

               It was Harry’s turn to be chastened. Fabian and Gideon Prewett weren’t brought up very often, but everyone knew how fond Mrs. Weasley had been of her older brothers. Arthur once told him in confidence that his wife hadn’t spoken to anyone for months after her brothers were murdered. Bill received his letter from Hogwarts, Ron wasn’t even a year old. She couldn’t let herself cry for fear she’d upset her brood.

               And even though he’d never say it out loud, Molly Weasley was Harry Potter’s kryptonite.  
*

  
              So that’s how he found himself stand in front of 4 Privet Drive, trying to psyche himself up to knock on the door. He was well aware that at least four of the neighbors were staring intermittently out their windows, waiting for him to do something suspicious so they could call the police. There was nothing the Durselys’ neighbors liked doing more than sabotaging each other.  
The house looked the same. Square, squat, and brick. The lawn was immaculate as always, and he suspected the same furniture and wall paper and photographs, the same tacky paintings and ugly china, decorated the inside. Dedalus told Neville that the house had been wrecked when they last checked in. Took weeks to sort it out what with all the cursed objects, hexes, and booby traps set, and that’s why the re-entry process had been so delayed. Vernon pitched a fit the whole time, apparently. No great surprise there. But Dedalus didn’t have a much to say about Petunia or Dudley, which was surprising. Was he feeling optimistic? Not in the least. So with a deep breath he knocked.

              Petunia was the one who answered. Her face looked even more gaunt and sharper than before. Her clothing hung too loosely on her frame, but her lips were still pursed disapprovingly. He was glad that some things never changed. And for a long moment, aunt and nephew just looked each other over. Harry was taller now, so they stood eye to eye, and for the first time he realized that though the color was somewhat duller, he and his aunt shared similar eyes. He wondered for a moment how much she’d hated seeing her sister’s eyes looking back at her every day for eleven years.

             “Lo, Aunt Petunia.”

            “What do you want?” Petunia asked stiffly, though the shrill tone in her voice gave away her nervousness. It was true that aurors had showed up on her doorstep and pulled her away from the normal life she loved so much, but Harry hadn’t been there himself in almost two years. She had nothing to fear from him.

              “Uhm,” he began eloquently, “My colleagues informed me that you returned from your…vacation. I just wanted to…check in…”

              “Your colleagues?”

              “Yes,” he answered evenly, “I work for the aur…for their police force now.” She relaxed visibly, but her eyes darted above and around him, probably looking to see who was watching, and then ushered him quickly into the house.

              “How did you get here?” she hissed after shutting the door and locking it behind her. “You didn’t bring some…strange motorcar did you?”

               He snorted at the phrasing, “No. I…popped in a couple of miles away and walked here.”

              “Well thank goodness for that!” she snapped, and he guessed she thought she’d been a little too loud because she brought her fingertips to her lips and pushed past him, flapping her hand for him to follow. So he did, into the parlor where she had tea set out. Was she expecting a guest? Or maybe it was just tea time and he hadn’t notice. He decided to ignore it, and sat down on the sofa he remembered was reserved for guests. It was stiff but looked expensive. His aunt didn’t want people to stay too long, but she didn’t want them to feel insulted either. The assumption that nothing had changed inside either was absolutely correct. Same awful décor, same awful color scheme, florals and plastics included. It was making him dizzy and nauseous, and he couldn’t help but compare it to the Burrow; the Burrow which felt like a living organism that brought you in and made a space for you, that adapted to accommodate anyone welcomed into the fold. Number 4 Privet Drive was a lifeless thing, a fortress against warmth and outsiders. It was rigid and cold. Harry abhorred it. Petunia was politely pouring the tea, placing the cup and saucer in front of him without offering milk and sugar. Luckily, he took it black.

               “How’s Dudley?” he asked coolly, wanting to break the silence before he lost his nerve and apparated right back where he came from.

               “At school,” she said icily. “He got into university and is studying business.”

               “Oh, that’s….that’s great.”

               “Yes,” she snapped, “He’ll be very successful.” Harry supposed that the implication was that he, Harry, would not, for whatever reason she’d concocted. He found it discomfiting that someone wanted him to fail so much just because he was…himself, rather than the larger, more diabolical motivations people usually had. Everyone else expected him to continually outdo himself; as if it were easy to top surviving a killing curse twice and getting rid of the most powerful dark lord of two generations. He wasn’t sure what was supposed to be more successful than that.

               “I’m sure he will, Aunt Petunia.” He fidgeted and took a sip of the weak tea he’d been given. “And Uncle Vernon is...?”

                She blanched, frowning deeply, “Upstairs asleep. He tried to go back to work, but his nerves…” She coughed. “He’s not what he used to be.”

               “I’m…I’m sorry to hear that. Did Dedalus tell you what happened to the house while you were gone?” She nodded sharply. “We wouldn’t have sent you away if there hadn’t been real concerns. I trust…my friends put everything back as it was.”

               “Yes,” though she seemed reluctant to admit it. Most likely, she’d searched the house top to bottom looking for some fault or flaw to complain over.

               “Good. That’s good.”

               “You haven’t said why you’re here,” she said abruptly. There was the shrillness that he had nightmares about. He put the tea back down on the table, bringing his hands back to his knees, steadying himself. But suddenly, he couldn’t remain still any longer. The urge to pace washed over him, and since all the fear of impertinence had been worked out of his system, he indulged that urge. Petunia tutted when he loped to his feet, hand palming the wand in his pocket, and walked to the curtained window. He took a moment to peer out, and was greeted with the sight of their neighbor peeking out her own window at theirs. The woman jerked back, leaving the curtain to sway closed. So he turned back around, hands shoved in his pockets, to face his aunt.

               “A schoolmate of mine…” Harry began and cut himself off again. He wasn’t at all sure that his aunt could even begin to comprehend Neville’s experience, what his parents had been put through. Furthermore, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to open them up for her contempt, to share it. “His parents…he lost them, sort of, before my parents died. And he thought that because I still have a connection to my mum through you that I should…try…to…engage?”

                His aunt looked like someone had just shoved a plate of dung under her nose. “I don’t understand you.” Harry swallowed hard, wishing that she had the decency to just look at him when he was trying to talk to her.

                “From what I’ve been told about my mum, she would have wanted me to make sure you were…fine. Whatever you thought of her, she apparently loved you very much and wished things had been different.” She still refused to look at him, staring down at her tea instead. “For what that’s worth to you,” he grumbled bitterly and sat back down. “I thought I’d do that part of it and maybe, I dunno, one day you might tell me a little about her? Just anything you remember, really. I’ve got pictures, but all the people who knew her best…” He swallowed again, feeling his chest twinge, “They’re all gone. They’ve all died.” Harry forced himself to look up at her, to at least try to get her to look at him. And he found that she already was, and that for the briefest of moments, there was genuine pity on her face. Real feeling. She cleared her throat harshly.

                “That boy from the neighborhood…”

                Harry nodded, “Him, too. He was trying to help bring down the man that murdered her. And he did, but he didn’t survive it.”

                “Horrid boy,” she spat.

                “For once, I absolutely agree with you.” His laugh felt hollow all things considered, but he assumed he’d come to terms with Snape and his relationship with his mum sometime in the future. And for another brief moment, he thought he saw an almost smile grace her features. It didn’t spread, however. Harry did smile, just because he was relieved she hadn’t kicked him out yet.

                 “She was young when she left for that school…” his aunt started.

                 “Eleven.”

                 She nodded, “I don’t know if I can…” Petunia Dursley cut herself off and hastily set down her own tea. She brought a hand to her head, a little distressed. “I can’t talk about her.” Harry’s heart sunk. “But…maybe…I could write.”

                 “Write?”

                 She rolled her eyes, “Letters. I could write you letters as I remember things. Not very often, mind you,” she said imperiously, “I do have a schedule to keep, but…occasionally…”

                 “Of course!” he squeaked out, “Anything, really. That would be brilliant. Thank you.” His words came out in a rush and he felt his face burning with embarrassment from his excitement. His throat tightened up for it, but he was so pleased he could puke. Unfortunately, his main business being taken care of, he had nothing else to say, really, and an awkward silence fell over them. The only sound for a long few minutes was the sound of them drinking tea.

                  And then Dudley came home. As always, he was loud and boorish as he moved through the house. Knocking into things, shaking the whole place as he walked. He shouted for his mother from the foyer, and ambled his way into the parlor, only to stop short when he saw Harry.

                 “Harry?” he yelped cleverly.

                 “Lo, Dudley.” He was just as big and bulky as he’d been when Harry had left. Same dull eyes and gormless expression on his face. He’d started to look more like his mother, maybe it was mannerisms or something.

                 “I…” He looked quickly back and forth between his mother and cousin, as if he could puzzle out an answer that way. “I didn’t know we were expecting you…”

                 “We weren’t,” Petunia snipped.

                 “Oh,” Dudley breathed, “Right. So. Everything’s good then? No more…black ghost things or nasty blokes after you?”

                 Harry laughed, like Dudley could ever be delicate. “Dementors are back where they’re supposed to be. Working on that. And we’re rounding up the last of the nastier ones.”

                 “We?”

                 “Right, me and our police force. That’s my job now.”

                 “You’re a copper?” he asked in disbelief, sinking into a dainty looking armchair.

                 “Yeah, yeah, sort of.”

                 “Aren’t you a bit…you know, small?”

                 “Dudley!” his mother hissed out. Not out of wanting him to be polite. She couldn’t give a damn if he was polite to anyone, least of all Harry. No, she just didn’t want Dudley to upset him and cause…unpleasantness. In all fairness, he’d earned himself a tail and an engorged tongue in the past, so she had a right to be concerned. Harry barked out a laugh though because for once Dudley was actually curious instead of taking a piss.

                 “Size isn’t really a factor in my line of work…our skillsets are different.”

                 “And you’re like…really powerful?” Petunia looked as if she’d just shat herself, eyes bulging out of their sockets at her son’s straightforwardness. Dudley ignored her though, addressing Harry’s raised brows. “The chap who took us to the safe house said you survived something that was supposed to kill you. A curse or summat? And that some real powerful blokes trained you and you survived it again so you could kill this other bloke…” Dudley ranted for a bit about what Dedalus had been telling him. And Dedalus had told him quite a lot. Dudley seemed…impressed with it all. By all accounts, he should have been uniquely terrified of magic, but he seemed to be genuinely interested.

                 “Well, sort of. It’s…complicated. But I suppose the gist of that is true. I didn’t really kill anyone he just…he killed himself in a way. Like ummm…” He searched around for a muggle concept to draw on. “He was like…one of your computers with a hard drive he kept hidden in a safe place. I got to the hard drive and he…accidently downloaded a virus that shut the whole thing down.”

                 “That…okay?” Dudley responded, not really understanding but realizing it was complicated. “So what are you doing back here? I thought—?”

                 “What in the blazes is HE DOING HERE?!” Obviously Vernon Dursley was awake. Both wife and son startled, and Harry felt a shot of adrenaline course through his veins. It was a conditioned response after so many years of caving to the flight side of fight or flight.

                 “Vernon!” Petunia squeaked at the same time Dudley said, “Dad…” Vernon was barreling towards Harry like the bulldog he was, face getting increasingly purple by the second.

                 “Get out! Get out of my house!” As he bellowed, Harry’s uncle was reaching to grab him by the scruff or the ear or whatever he could reach. But Harry wasn’t a defenseless child any longer. He waved a hand and a protective shield went up, and his uncle bounced back. In a rage, Vernon tried again only to be bounced back. Wandless magic was such a treasure. It was a difficult thing to master even the simplest of spells without a wand. Harry didn’t have much control over any of it, in fact his best work was done on the fly, under stress and when it was absolutely necessary. But there were a few things he could do, and a weak old muggle like his uncle didn’t require a particularly strong shield. “You! You…!” Vernon growled out.

                 “Will leave as soon as I say goodbye to my aunt and cousin,” Harry answered evenly, putting his now empty tea cup and saucer on the coffee table. Vernon began shouting abuse, raving at him to leave immediately or he would call the police, and so on and so forth. Harry rolled his eyes, completely exasperated. This had been plenty expected. He waved his hand again, using a silencing charm so that he could speak to Petunia and Dudley for a moment before leaving.

                 “What did you do?” Petunia squeaked when she suddenly couldn’t hear her husband’s voice, despite the fact that he was very obviously still shouting. Ah, well, silencing charms were his specialty. He’d mastered them almost right away, seeing as he’d been so proficient in them with a wand.

                 “It’s harmless,” Harry assured her. “Just like turning down the volume on the telly. I’ll lift it in a moment.” Petunia nodded, thinking it was probably for the best. “I just wanted to say thank you for your hospitality. And for your generous offer regarding my mother.” He reached into his pocket for the card he’d had made up, something she could keep on her person without her husband snatching it away. “You can reach me at this address,” he handed her the card, “It’s my office, but we receive post from your end all of the time, so there shouldn’t be any difficulty. Just make sure to post it to that address exactly or it will go through a ridiculous screening process…” Dudley made a confused face. “There are still people out there who want me dead. They won’t bother you, we’ve taken certain precautions, but I’m somewhat of a target at work.” He gave them a curt nod and stood to leave. He was about to lift the charm on his uncle when Dudley stood in a rush and held out his hand.

                 “Uhm,” Harry looked at his hand warily, “Good luck? I guess.” Harry took his hand, giving it a firm shake. “And I’m told we should thank you. That bloke’s plans…well they made it sound like it would have been bad if he’d won.”

                 “Bad doesn’t begin to cover it.” He released Dudley’s hand and gave one last parting look to his aunt. “I wish you well. Stay in touch, if you can.” His aunt nodded silently, so Harry lifted the silencing charm just to wince at his uncle’s even louder bellows. Harry apparated back to the Burrow where Molly Weasley was waiting with the best tea he’d ever tasted, warm biscuits, and a fiercely tight hug. She didn’t even know where he’d been or what he’d just done. She was just happy to see him, and she’d seen him the day before.  
If anything ever came of his chat with Petunia Dursley, Harry swore he’d tell Neville and Ron they’d been right. Until that day, he kept it to himself that maybe there was enough left of that bridge to rebuild.


	7. Chapter 7

                 Ginny was having a Bad Day. She had loads of bad days, but Bad Days were rarer, though happening more and more frequently as the end of the school year approached. She was impatient and keyed up and trying to stay focused but it was hard. George, Percy, Bill, and Fleur managed to make it to Quidditch matches; her parents even flooed over for a couple, but Harry and Ron were always noticeably absent. Rookie aurors had graveyard and weekend shifts, which meant they were never able to get away to attend. And if they weren’t on a regular shift, they were out on classified assignments. Especially Harry. Hermione would anxiously comb through letters from Ron hunting for news of any kind, but Ron was remarkably tight lipped about what Harry got up to. He kept it brief, mostly discussing his off-hours work at George’s shop. It was frustrating for Hermione, but disheartening for Ginny. Harry’s letters came in regular intervals. One letter every two weeks, and he never talked about his work, just stories about the past like he’d promised. He wasn’t as descriptive or eloquent as she was in her own letters, but he got the job done, and it was a comfort to know that he was processing some of it.

                 But for the first time in months, she hadn’t gotten her bimonthly letter. No Ministry owl swooping down to her at breakfast with Harry’s usual scrawl. Nothing. Then a clumsy first year had spilled tea all over her Charms essay. Hermione was having fits over rumors about some party that was supposedly happening within the next week, and was annoyingly adamant she was going to shut it down. Honestly, Ginny thought Hermione needed a project or a good shag to distract her from being such a goody swot all the time. And to top it all off Trevor Birch would not stop asking her out. She’d told him a hundred times that she didn’t want a relationship, which he definitely did, and that she had no interest in spending time with him. But he was convinced that she could be convinced. Utter. Wanker. He’d crowded into her space at breakfast when she was distracted and watching for Harry’s owl. He followed her, and then tried to trap her in an alcove so they could “talk.” He was spouting all sorts of nonsense about how they could be good together and that she needed someone who was willing to put in the time and effort with her, because, you know, she was a bit wild and needed a firm hand…That was right when she slapped him and stormed off.

                 Damn Harry. Damn Hermione. Damn Trevor. Could she damn Harry again? She hated that she’d grown to be so reliant on those letters. On hearing from him. It wasn’t fair. In a quiet rage, Ginny went to her lessons. Paying attention simply wasn’t an option, so she wrote. She scribbled in the corners of her notebook, along the edges of her notes, words and phrases that bubbled to the surface while she seethed about men. Idiot men who thought they could do as they pleased with no thought for anyone else’s feelings.  
It didn’t help that she was on her period. It didn’t help that she was behind in her revising or that her team was struggling to master a new play she’d come up with. A damn good play, too, if they could get it together in time for their last match against Ravenclaw. And when she thought about that, she thought of spring time and Quidditch matches and a messy coming together in Gryffindor Tower with everyone watching. Harry was never too far from her mind, even when she was mad at him.  
Lunch improved her mood, since Hermione swept in and apologized for raving about the stupid party because it wasn’t that big of a deal anyway in the grand scheme of things. And maybe she ought to let it be so people could blow off some steam? Ron really was making an impact. She also mentioned that Ron hadn’t written that morning, which was odd for him as he wrote every morning, and that he’d also been very cryptic in his last letter. It was making her barmy, and therefore, she was obsessing over trivialities. The fact that Hermione was missing Ron like Ginny was missing Harry made her feel like less of a twat. Kinship reaffirmed, they went to their Potions lesson where Hermione proceeded to humiliate their classmates with her precise knowledge and Ginny acted as her happy assistant as they brewed a perfect batch of Mopsus potion.

                 At three, Ginny was back in the Common Room, writing in her journal. It was something Harry had recommended before she’d returned to school. Not only would it help her get over her…issues with writing in diaries, but he thought it would be a good idea for her to keep an accurate record of her last year. A keepsake. And privately Ginny wondered if he ever intended to ask to read it. It was the best thing she could have done. Being back at Hogwarts was equally wonderful and traumatic. It wasn’t the same; the castle had changed, the people had changed, and Ginny had changed. There was a complex swirl of emotions in her belly that she couldn’t quite vocalize all of the time. Instead, she wrote about it, and yes, it helped to address it to Harry.  
She was writing that thought down when a first year came flying through the portrait hole to inform her that McGonagall needed to see her in her office. Odd, but whatever. Maybe she wanted to talk Quidditch. The woman was spectacularly competitive despite the fact that she was supposed to be “neutral” now that she was no longer head of Gryffindor house. She made her way quickly to the headmistress’ office, giving the griffin the password and going up. Her expectation was that it would be some trivial matter that McGonagall wanted her to handle, something that would eat up her precious free time and test her patience. There was a reason Hermione was Head Girl and that Fay Dunbar was Gryffindor’s Prefect. Ginny was not suited for administrative work. Their headmistress requested her assistance because people would listen to her, trusted her judgement, and because the younger students looked up to her. The same could be said of Hermione, but she wasn’t Just Hermione anymore. She was Hermione Granger, Order of Merlin, First Class, girlfriend of Ron Weasley, Order of Merlin, First Class, and best friend to Harry Potter the Boy Who Lived to become the Savior, Order of Merlin, First Class. In short, she was intimidating. And that was on top of her already intense and spirited personality. So there was probably a student who was failing because they were homesick or being bullied or something equally awful, but still absolutely normal that McGonagall wanted her to talk to or mentor. Not that Ginny would ever turn her down. She just wished there was someone else around to do the job.

                 But what she found in the headmistress’ office was not McGonagall behind her desk, scribbling off letters and such. Instead, she found Harry, in his dark blue auror robes peering at McGonagall’s bookshelves while making conversation with some of the portraits.

                 “No, Albus,” The portrait hanging behind Harry chuckled deeply at his cheek, “I didn’t…”

                 “Miss Weasley!” Another headmaster’s portrait greeted her loudly, causing the rest to chime in with their salutations, and for Harry to whip around with a wry grin on his face.

                 “Hey Gin,” he said softly. Ginny felt herself melt a little. She hadn’t seen him since Boxing Day, but even then they’d not had any time alone. George was so upset and her mum had been distraught to have one less place setting at the table; they weren’t allowed out of her sight for very long. Still, she could tell he was remarkably different. He looked less haunted, his frame filled out with muscle, less skeletal in the face. It was strange what a few months could do. She took a few quick steps forward, hand reaching out for him without her consent.

                 “Harry!” Somehow that hand went right to his neck, and she was being swept up in his embrace. He held her tightly, arms bracing her lower back and lifting her from the ground. He had a good six inches on her now, and she was frightfully irked by it. She pulled back, beaming at him and feeling so much better, “What are you doing here? Where’s McGonagall? Does she know you’re here? What about Ron? Oh lord, if you don’t see Hermione before you leave…!” He cut her off by pressing a kiss to her forehead, and it would have been pleasant if not for the cooing and chuckling of the castle’s former headmasters around them.

                 “First, McGonagall knows, seeing as I flooed in here for a scheduled visit. Second, Ron came with and I’ve just seen Hermione. I assume that he’s dragged her off to the library for a long snog, like he’s been ranting about doing for ages. Third, I’m here because we’ve just got back from assignment and needed to speak with McGonagall which coincidently meant I could ask you in person why you’ve decided not to come home for Easter.”

                 Ginny had enough sense to look thoroughly chastened. Her mouth tended to run away from her. But she was ecstatic that he was there and he was holding her without trying to put distance between them, and that was such a relief. Unfortunately the close proximity made her want to lean in for a kiss, but she forced herself to stay still. Especially since they had a very attentive audience.

                 “I’ve a lot of research to do,” she offered weakly. “Not to mention, trials are in a few weeks and I really need to focus on practicing.”

                 “I get that, but a couple of days…"

                 “It’s not just a couple of days, and you know that.” And he really did. Because she’d told him why. It was difficult enough to be ripped away from her place of focus, but add to it the weight of her family’s grief. It was the first birthday George would celebrate without Fred, and Ginny couldn’t bear it, not with everything else going on. She’d already spoken to George about it, and while he wasn’t happy, he understood. He didn’t want her jeopardizing her future now that they all had one. Her mum was a little miffed about it, terse in her latest letters, but she hadn’t expected Harry to be upset. Ginny saw a flash of irritation across his face and she winced. “Are you mad at me?”

                 “No.”

                 “Pfft,” Behind them Phineas Black and Snape were scoffing and sneering. Harry turned to make an obscene gesture in their direction, causing Headmasters Fronsac and Aragon to laugh uproariously. Dumbledore tsked with a smirk that betrayed his amusement.

                 “I am not mad at you. I’m…disappointed. But! That’s why I decided to drop in on Ol’ Minnie instead of sending an owl.”

                 “Ooh, so you’re really just here to lead me astray, is that it?”

                 “I’ve no idea what you’re on about, Miss Weasley,” he deadpanned, “I’m always on my very best behavior.” This time Ginny snorted right along with the portraits. Harry’s placid expression didn’t waver however, so she was forced to play along.

                 “Well in that case, I’m burdened with the task of leading you astray, Mr. Almighty Savior.” She pulled out of his embrace and slid an arm through his. “And I think it should start with a turn about the lake.” Harry laughed and laughed as she snootily lead him back into the corridor and through the castle. As they passed, the faint conversations of the portraits trailed them. Familiar sight, that. A ginger bird clinging to bespectacled Potter? Very much so. Do you remember when he helped flood the castle? Of course! Spent a week drying out with Filch, nasty git! Miss Evans was a fearsome sight in those days, had that boy on a leash…  
Ginny’s day was much improved after that.


	8. Chapter 8

                The one year anniversary came upon them faster than expected. May 2nd. It was a day they had long dreaded. But it was spring, and the day was bright and cheerful. There was not a cloud in the sky and birds sang happily from their perches. The grounds at Hogwarts were flooded with visitors, those invited to pay their respects. Special allowances had been made for just about anyone who wanted to join, muggle or otherwise. There was an unveiling ceremony of the obelisk that had been erected and a mural Dean Thomas had painted in honor of the day. Harry had asked Dean not to use his likeness in the mural, not wanting the focus to be on him. Dean settled for using imagery. It was beautifully done, and more than one person wept at the sight of it. He’d painted everyone who died that day, standing together as if taking a group portrait, the edges of the painting were cloudy and dark tendrils inched toward the smiling group. But behind them, a bright patronus, a stag, came rushing at them, encircling their outer perimeter, and in some places, seemed to push back at the darkness. The stag had green eyes. It was a subtle nod that not everyone would understand, and Harry was exceedingly grateful for it.

                At the obelisk, Harry was to make a speech. He wouldn’t have done it except that Kingsley was far more underhanded than previously realized. He sent Molly Weasley to make the request. Now, Mrs. Weasley wasn’t nearly as dubious. Nor did she have any ulterior motives for asking him. Kingsley was thinking of a political agenda, about the press, how everything would look to the public. Mrs. Weasley was thinking about Harry, their friends, the surviving families. She came to him quietly, humbly, with a watery smile and a kiss to his temple.

                “If it comes from you, then they will _know_ their children died heroes. That what they did that day meant something. It means something coming from you, dear. And it would be a shame if they never heard it.” And who was he to deny his mum, the one person who never asked him for _anything_?

                So there he stood, at a podium just to the left of the obelisk, feeling very much like he had the day of Fred’s funeral. Anxious and uncomfortable, wary of the eyes that watched him querulously. He’d gotten to the podium and found himself at a loss for words, his throat closed up as he looked out at the faces waiting for him to speak. The faces of people who had believed in him and trusted him. Some even cared about him, Just Harry, as a person.

                “If things had gone the way I would have liked,” he started out slowly, his voice amplified by a charm Flitwick had cast. “Then none of you would know my name.” His words resounded over the lawns, confusing the people before him. “Well, not the way you know it today. Almost eight years ago now, I found out that I was a wizard. I was only eleven, and yet I was told that everyone already knew my name because one man…a man corrupted with hate and darkness, failed to kill me properly.” He had to stop and clear his throat at that. “So he didn’t stop trying. Over and over again he failed, not because I was stronger, not because I was better, but because of the people around me. People with strong hearts, and goodness, and fierce _love_ that he could never understand. And they stood around me not because they wanted to keep me safe, but because they knew, just as I always knew, that my survival meant his death. That one day, at the right time, with the proper tools, I could end him.

                “That day came a year ago today. And it’s with a heavy heart that I tell you many brilliant and talented witches and wizards didn’t even make it to that day. It’s with heavy and terrible regret that I stand here today to speak of the ones who did, but did not survive it. They didn’t fight for me. Whatever you might think, they fought for a better world. They fought for you.” He felt the tears prick at his eyes and he looked down. “For a better future for all of us. I’ve said it before: if I could change it so that they could be here, even if I was not, I would do it in a heartbeat. I knew them, fought alongside them, respected, and even loved some of them. We’re here today to honor them, our fallen, for ensuring the future we’ve been gifted with. One full of possibilities instead of fear, a union instead of division.” A tear slipped and he hated himself for it, showing that weakness. “Minister Shacklebolt will do the honors of the roll call.” Harry shuffled to the side, back into the welcoming embrace of Weasleys and Grangers, who reached for him. Mrs. Weasley wiped his tears away and kissed his cheek. Andromeda handed him Teddy, sensing that he would be in need of the comfort. Harry cuddled the boy close, pressing his nose to his little head. Kingsley’s voice reverberated over the din of the bereaved as he spoke the names aloud, one by one, with their honors.

                Once it was finished, an eternal flame was lit in the obelisk by Hagrid, a point of light never to be extinguished. There was hearty applause and cheering for it, even through tears. It meant something in the midst of their grief. The crowd was given time to mingle and pay their respects now that the ceremony was complete. Harry, with Teddy in his arms, spoke with every family member, every person who fought or contributed, or aided him. Tears and laughter came in equal measures. A year had passed and the grief was not so raw as it had been at the funerals. People shared stories, shared things they’d experienced in their loved one’s absence, and every kind word, every voice choked with bittersweet fondness, was a balm. They asked about Teddy, asked about his plans, and some even talked about their own plans. After a time, McGonagall announced that the Head Boy and Girl, along with several prefects and some faculty, would be leading guests along the path of markers through the castle and grounds. Each marker bore the name of someone who had died during the battle and the date, even the death eaters. A path had been laid out so that people could follow along and remember. There was a marker for Tom Riddle, but it was a simple stone in the center of a tile, with the letters _TR_ and nothing more.

                Harry couldn't see them all. Not all of the people he wanted, not all of the graves. He couldn’t be with everyone, so he went to none of them. Not even Dumbledore's. Instead, Harry handed Teddy back to his grandmother, and he went to the place he'd fallen. The place where they might have put a marker for him.

                It was a quiet place. Empty. Almost as if all of the forest's denizens had left to give him some privacy. He felt an odd kinship with them now. There was very little left to fear in those woods. Aragog was dead. Hermione was making strides to reach out to Britain's werewolves. And he knew for a fact that during his speech, the centaur herd had lined the edge of the forest to pay their respects.  
He took a seat on a large boulder lodged deep in the earth and inhaled deeply. At first he wasn't sure he could find it again.  But his feet had known the path. His body remembered the way because he'd walked it so often in his dreams. There were no spirits with him this time, but the air sparked with them, was heavy with their whisperings and hands on his shoulders. Even alone, he was bogged down with company.

                "I miss you all.”

                _Harry!_ That definitely wasn't the voice of a ghost. _Harry!_

                He turned to see Hermione and Ron, hand in hand, making their way to him through the brush. He had to shake his head and blink hard because there was something inexplicably bright about them. So sharp and crisp and heart wrenchingly endearing to him. He should have known they would find him. They always did. Neither spoke as they flanked him on the boulder, looking around and into the woods. They needn't ask why he didn’t visit the markers. Didn't make the trek through the castle. During the restoration, he and Ron had placed almost every marker themselves. Had insisted on it. He and McGonagall had selected the spot for the obelisk. Hermione had written the words on the plaque with Ginny's help. But his friends knew that these were things he'd done to help others mourn in a familiar way. Harry had his own way.

                "Is this where..?" Hermione asked softly.

                "Yes," Harry croaked.

                "Blimey," Ron breathed, bracing his hands behind him. "Don't look like much does it?" He was right. There was nothing to indicate that anything of importance had happened there. It was just another clearing in the woods.

                "No, it really doesn't," Hermione agreed. "It feels strange though don't you think? Just...the air feels different. Like during a storm." Odd for Hermione to talk about something so abstract.

                "Thank the lord, I thought the goosebumps were just me. Place is creepy."

                Harry shrugged, "Feels loud to me."

                " _Feels_ loud?" Hermione asked, wrinkling her nose at his imprecise phrasing.  "It's very quiet here, Harry. Eerily so."

                "Do you--" Ron cut himself off, but Harry quirked a brow, wanting him to continue. "Do you think," he said in a hushed voice, "it's because your mum and dad were here? Because the Stone brought that lot back for you and then you know you..." He gestured uselessly. "Crossed over?" Harry shrugged with a shake of his head, he couldn't know for sure.

                "It makes sense." Hermione said slowly. "The boundaries between the living and the dead were broken down. Shattered, maybe. And there are theories that veils exist where you can cross to the afterlife..." She shot Harry an apologetic look, but he waved her off. "Places like that have a lot of natural power. It's earth magic. There was a wizard who made a career of finding such places. He said with the right intent and powerful magic, you could call forth the dead from the other side."

                "I s’pose it helps that the stone is somewhere nearby."

                She hummed, "It should focus the energy, yes. And since its purpose is specific, the energy is specific."

                "So we could call back Fred?" Ron croaked out.

                "In theory," Hermione said, "but we would have to be careful. Summoning the dead can be dangerous, and sending them back tricky." She sighed heavily. "It's a nice thought though. Hurts how much I miss him sometimes." Ron grunted. Words didn't come as easily to him. Not when it was about Fred. Hermione reached around to squeeze his hand. “It’s strange, but I feel closer to them here. I couldn’t feel anything by their markers, not by the obelisk, but here?” She looked up into the treetops where the sun was fighting its way through, letting her eyes drift shut, “I can almost hear Tonks’ laugh…” They stayed quiet for a time. Reveling in the charged air and their isolation together. It wasn't often that the three of them had time alone together. Not anymore. Harry wanted to linger a time longer, hold onto it. But it was like holding sand, the tighter you hold it the faster it falls away.

                "They want me to do an interview. Marking the anniversary. Morale thing."  Ron grunted again.

                "You've not done one since fourth year. I don't see why they should think you'd do it now."

                "Might help people move on though," Ron chimed in unexpectedly. He rolled his big shoulders. "Hearing from you. All this time later.  Most of the death eaters have been tried. Few more to catch. People are still scared with Riddle's followers still around." Harry looked to Hermione who only shrugged. No help there then.

                "Nothing I could say would help them. I don't even know what they'd want to ask. And honestly, it's probably more to do with my illicit affairs with Luna, Hermione, and Angelina." Ron snorted.

                "Ange was livid. George thought it was brilliant. Only thing to make him laugh all week."

                "It's odd isn't it, that the press pays attention to all of your female friends except the one that you're actually in love with?"

                "Hermione," Harry sighed, exasperated. More and more she brought up Ginny in her letters. The closer they were to graduation, the more insistent she was.

                "You're both barking," Ron argued, "even I don't understand it."

                "And you're not likely to. So drop it will you?" They agreed reluctantly. "What if they interviewed you lot?" Harry asked suddenly.

                "Us lot?"

                "Yeah. You. The DA. They're always calling you my support team or whatever. What if all of you agreed to a group interview?"

                "Without you?"

                "Sure. That way they can ask you questions about me and they might get answers. Keeps me out of the press. Gives you lot more of it. Mione needs it for that bill she's passing. Shop could use it. Alicia is trying to fundraise for some charity. Dean could always use the promotion. There's not a paper or magazine in the world that would shoot down that offer."

                "We'd have to get the others to agree..."

                "Gin won't"

                "She will if I ask," Harry dismissed.

                "We'd need someone good. Someone we trust."

                "Eddie Lima," Ron and Harry said in tandem. He was a reporter for the Prophet and was very judicious and objective in his writing. Ginny thought very highly of him. Her opinion was bolstered by Harry's remembering the piece he'd written about Sirius when he escaped. Of course, the escape itself had been major news, but Lima had written about the man himself, having conducted interviews with him during the trials. He'd described Sirius as haunted and enraged, of course, and definitely capable of murder. But that he spoke like a man consumed by grief, like man who hadn't had his revenge. Lima was the only one who never believed that Sirius had betrayed the Potters. He'd described it as a hunch.

                "I'll speak with the others. Call a meeting. If they agree, we'll owl Lima. But it's all or nothing," Hermione said firmly. "We're not doing this with any more absences than necessary. Colin and Nigel and Lavender and Fred are enough."      

                "More than," Harry agreed.

                "Too much," Ron said.


	9. Chapter 9

                 Ron, Hermione, George, Alicia, Ginny, Angelina, Katie Bell, Hannah, Susan Bones, Terry Boot, Luca Caruso, Cho, Michael Corner, Dennis Creevey, Justin, Seamus, Dean, Anthony Goldstein, Lee Jordan, Neville, Luna, Ernie, McLaggen, Rionach, the Patils, Maisy, and Alice Tolipan were all there. Twenty eight in total, and there should have been more. Lima was a little unsettled by the sheer number, but Hermione quickly got things into order. She systematically put everyone into groups by class year and house, snapping at anyone talking out of turn. McLaggen was only a problem until the Gryffindor chasers promised to hex him into oblivion if he didn’t shut up and respect Hermione’s authority. Hermione was desperate to make everything go as smoothly as possible. Not only because they were going to be on the front page, but for Harry’s sake. They’d agreed to do this so that people would stop bothering him with useless questions. If she could just get them to…

                Perfect.

                With a smile, Hermione spun on her heel and dropped into the seat next to Ron. They had decided to do the interview in the Room of Requirement, as it was fitting to do so. It was where everything had started for them. McGonagall and the faculty hadn’t been able to find the Room all year, though, and Flitwick claimed it was most likely “recovering” from the Fiendfyre. Harry, however, was forever the outlier, and the moment he entered the hall, the door appeared and behind it was the perfect room for a group interview. There was an enormous u-shape couch for them to populate, and the floor in front of it was lowered so that people could sit on chairs just below the others’ eye level. There was a comfortable chair and table for Lima to utilize. Harry had ushered them all in, taken a look around, and then promptly left. And that meant Hermione was in charge. She tried not to be annoyed when Ron repeated her orders in a shout immediately after she said it. But when they all settled down and directed their attention at the reporter, Lima seemed to be at a loss as to where he should start.

                “Uhm…thank you, all of you, for doing this. And for your service. I’m…of course I have questions, though I’ve only had an hour or so to prepare. But, where to begin?” He seemed flustered, looking over his notes.

                “Mr. Lima?” Cho spoke up from the back her burred accent thickened from her time at home, “Perhaps you’d like us to start at the beginning?” And thus the dam broke wide open. In turns, choreographed as if they’d been telling the story together for years, Dumbledore’s Army talked about their beginnings. Hermione was the first to speak, since she and Ron had convinced Harry to teach them. She talked about their outrage over Umbridge and her tyrannical take on education. Ron said that they had felt useless and afraid, and that Hermione was the only one who could talk sense into Harry when he needed motivation. She blushed, but it was true. Those who had attended the first meeting spoke one after the other about their impressions of Harry, how sure of himself he’d been. Neville spoke about finding the Room of Requirement. Ron gushed about Hermione’s idea for the enchanted galleons, how brilliant it had been, until Neville, George, and Terry started jeering at him to stop bragging on his girlfriend. At which point, Ginny tacked on that Neville had used the coins to get everyone to the castle for the final battle. The others continued on, telling Lima why they joined, who they’d heard about it from. And from there it was stories about their meetings, about dodging Umbridge and her Inquisitorial Squad, about what a wonderful teacher Harry was. Some of the girls talked about their crushes on him, much to the boys’ and Ginny’s eternal exasperation. Harry would have blushed forehead to tiptoe if he’d been there. Lima was exceptionally impressed that they all could cast corporeal patronuses. For their own entertainment, they all casted the charm simultaneously, laughing riotously as the animals of light moved and bounced around the room, greeting one another and playing games. Lima was ecstatic.

                “Well, that was just lovely, thank you for that!” he chuckled. “I’ve got a few more questions and then we can wrap this up. Um. Several of your group, Lavender Brown, Colin Creevey, Fred Weasley, and Nigel Wolpert died during the battle. I’m to understand that I am addressing some of their siblings?” The Weasleys shifted together as a solid unit, and George, who’d become rather fond of “Lil Den,” threw an arm around his shoulders. Hermione grabbed Ron’s hand. Ginny grabbed her brothers’ free hands. “Ah, you have my sincerest condolences,” Lima said, “I suppose I wonder what it feels like. Knowing that this originally began as an educational endeavor, how does it feel to you that some of your number died in combat?”

                They all exchanged looks, glancing around at one another to see who could articulate it. Who could speak to such a visceral thing? The DA, fractured as it was by circumstances, met once a month at Hog’s Head. Not everyone made it to every meeting, and Harry was typically not among their number. It was something they’d decided to do in order to stay in touch, keep tabs on one another. Dean had brought Colin to the castle, Dennis had been left behind. Fred’s death had been a freak accident. There weren’t many who didn’t witness Fenrir Grayback leap and tear into Lavender. There weren’t many who didn’t break entirely when they saw Nigel’s small, damaged body. And Harry’s faked death hadn’t helped. They wanted to know where the others were, plain and simple. It was Neville who spoke, in the end.

                “It rips my heart out,” he said solemnly. Beside him, Hannah Abbott gasped and Luna patted his thigh. Several people reached out to him, bolstering him for the words. “We were all together for so long. We had a cause, a goal. Most of us, when Harry was gone, we were here waiting, preparing and taking care of each other. Only news we had came from Lee and George here on Potterwatch. All’s we had was each other.  We’d come so far…to have them gone, that they didn’t get to see a day when Tom Riddle didn’t have us by the throat…it rips my heart out.”

                “Ay,” most of them chimed in.

                “Well said, Longbottom.” A few of them were crying now, holding as many hands as possible. They’d mourned their dead. This felt different. Hermione bit back a sob.

                “You’ll never know what it was like coming back here, knowing that you all had been waiting and were so ready to help,” she brushed away tears. They’d said these things before too. “We were so tired and so afraid, and we never would have succeeded without any of you.” Her sob escaped, and Ron freed his hand from Ginny to comfort her. Those sitting around her, put hands to her back and arm, Katie Bell petted her hair where Ron’s face wasn’t shoved.

                “We trained for that day,” Ginny added resolutely, “Long and hard and whenever we could. I don’t think any of us actually believed that we would survive it, but we were fighting so other people could. We were fighting to give Harry enough time to do what he needed to do.” There were many loud hums of approval. “They should have been here to celebrate with us,” she finished quietly.

                “Very well-articulated, Miss Weasley, thank you.” He cleared his throat, in all likelihood, fighting back some tears of his own. After all, the oldest of their number was twenty. “I’d like to ask a couple of questions about Harry, if you don’t mind.” There was a collective groan that made Hermione shake with silent laughter. Ron had pulled back to give her room, but his arm was around her waist and she might as well have been in his lap. Tossing propriety aside, Hermione shifted herself onto his lap completely, her arms loping around his neck, and she leaned her head against his. Whatever questions Lima had, the others could answer them.

                “How would you describe Harry Potter, in one or two words?”

                “Dedicated.”

                “Caring.”

                “Brave.”

                “Forgiving.”

                “Loyal.”

                “Noble.”

                “Eh, cheeky,” George said with a shrug as people continued tossing words out, “He’s kind of a smart arse.” This made everyone dissolve into giggles. Comedic timing was George’s forte and it broke the seriousness of the situation. Lima asked them about some of their fondest memories, and nearly everyone had something to contribute. Ron and Hermione claimed it was Halloween their first year, surprising even themselves, even though it was for different reasons. Ron had never seen someone get so excited just to have sweets and friends in the same place. Hermione remembered the boy who hardly knew her coming to her rescue, and that it was the first day they were really friends. After that everyone’s heads swiveled to Ginny who looked around crossly.

                “Oh _hell_ no, I’m not talking about my _fondest_ bloody memory!”

                “Quit being a perv, Weasley!” Rionach teased from the back. Ginny rolled her eyes.

                “He’s…Harry…” She kept trailing off and crossed her arms in her frustration. “Harry doesn’t expect people to be kind to him. He doesn’t expect…anything of people at all. He…I suppose there isn’t one specific moment that sticks out for me because there have been so many. He was so alone for such a long time with the weight of the world on his shoulders, and it just made him kind. It made him generous. And we’ve all experienced that with him.” George swooped in to kiss her temple as Hermione reached around to pat her hand.

                “All right,” Lima said with a small smile, “Last question. There have obviously been a lot of rumors regarding Mr. Potter’s love life…so, Ladies, are any of you…?” The resounding “ _NO!_ ” cut him off before he finished, but there was one “Yes,” which made everyone turn around to figure out who said it. Seamus, of course.

                “Oh definitely, sorry for not telling ya, mates, but our torrid love affair has been going on for years!” The general laughter and cries of disbelief must have convinced Lima that this was a joke because his eyebrows shot up but his smile was wide.

                “What?!” Dean barked, getting to his feet, “ _I’m_ the one who’s been with Harry all this time, not _you_ ya bloody Mick!”

                “Oi!” The two of them fake wrestled before hugging each other with wide smiles. They were booed. Hermione decided to put an end to it.

                “No, Mr. Lima, as far as we all know, Harry’s not in a relationship with _anyone_.”

                “Specially not those gits,” Ron deadpanned.


	10. Chapter 10

                When Ginny and Hermione graduated and returned to the Burrow, Ron and Harry were not there to greet them. In fact, they were gone for most of the summer in Eastern Europe, hunting down the remaining death eaters. By the time they returned with only partial success, Hermione was settled in at the Ministry saving house elves and Ginny had begun practicing with the Holyhead Harpies reserve team. Regardless, both girls were ecstatic to get away from their respective mothers and rented out a flat in the same building as the boys. Neither mother was thrilled by this prospect and said so, adamantly, over dinner at the Burrow one night. The Grangers had become regulars at the Weasley’s, and Molly didn’t seem to have a problem teaming up with Mrs. Granger. Harry was the one who put a stop to the lecturing.

                “Mrs. Weasley, Mrs. Granger, it’s all right, really. I solemnly swear that I will babysit your children and make them behave themselves.” George had crowed his approval at the underhanded wording, but Harry still got peas in the face courtesy of Ginny.

                It was after the girls moved in that they started rotating who went out walking with Harry at night. Ron simply couldn’t sustain it, what with his love of sleep and working two jobs at the Auror’s Office and George’s shop after hours. Hermione enjoyed her time with Harry because it gave them the chance to talk like they hadn’t been able to in a while. She had more to say than he did, and that was all right because Hermione already knew everything and if Harry needed to talk, she would have known. She told him stories about her last year at school, how dreadful it had been without them to distract her. Ginny helped, but had been quite busy herself. And, anyway, it just wasn’t the same. She told him about her parents and how they were still “building trust.” Hermione wasn’t allowed to use magic at home, unless she was tricky enough to hide it (obviously, she was). It was a strain and a pain in the arse, but worth it if the Grangers were on happy terms with the Weasleys. Absent-mindedly, he accidentally brought Tony up one time, and he begged her not to tell anyone, Ron included.

                “He wouldn’t blame you for it,” she’d told him slowly. “Personally, I think it’s wonderful you’re talking to someone neutral. Something like that can only be beneficial. But Ron wouldn’t say anything bad…he just…”

                “Yes,” Harry agreed, “He just.” Had closed ranks quickly. Hermione, whom Ron had opened up to, said it had a lot to do with Fred’s death. It was a bizarrely robust version of Weasley loyalty. Ron preferred to keep it in the family. Going to outsiders was a capital offense. Regardless, Hermione promised to keep it to herself so long as he continued to go.

                As much as he loved Hermione, Harry still liked his walks with Ginny best. He continued where he’d left off in their letters: his fourth year, during the third challenge. The maze. Cedric. Watching Voldemort come to bodily life using Harry’s blood, no more protective blood magic. _Pettigrew_. He still spat the name. He told her about Priori Incantatem, their connection, that their wands knew one another, they were brothers. He told her it was the first time he saw his parents’ spirits.

                “The first time?”

                He’d only nodded.

                She knew much of what happened after that, with Barty Crouch Jr., the Order reestablishing. She didn’t know just how much Tom had been in his head. She didn’t know that he’d had a first person view of Arthur being attacked, that he’d blamed himself. But there were happy times that year too. Cho and Dumbledore’s Army. She knew all about that of course, and about Umbridge. Harry wasn’t the only one wearing scars from her detentions. So he mostly told her how lonely it had been. That Dumbledore had been shutting him out, avoiding him, ignoring him. He didn’t trust. He couldn’t see. Or maybe he saw too much, and that was justification enough. Everything was much easier for him to lay out, to condense and explain to her now that he’d talked it over with Tony. He gave her more details, of course, more of his thoughts and feelings, how he’d experienced it, though. Tony agreed that Harry should talk more about his present state during their sessions, rather than the past. 

                It was good for Harry, having Ginny so close again. He felt lighter. Less unsteady. But they weren’t “together.” Not in any technical or practical way. Their touches were affectionate but platonic, if they kissed it was brief, and it was rare. Hermione demanded information from Ginny about this, wanting to know why they were pussyfooting around and skirting the issue when it was all very simple. Ginny had merely shrugged on her way out the door for a dinner date.

                “He’s not among the living,” she’d said sadly, “Not yet, anyway. I have to wait.”

                “So what on earth are you going out on a date for!?” Hermione could be volatile when it came to Harry. It didn’t help that she was absolutely confused about the first part of Ginny’s statement, and was feeling a little defensive about it.

                “For my sanity, Mione. To talk to someone who doesn’t have PTSD, who didn’t spend years of their life chasing a dark lord, and well, to have _fun._ It means absolutely nothing. And Harry knows all about it anyway.”

                He did indeed. Did he like it much? No. But he wasn’t in any position to offer her anything more. And her beaus were never around for very long. Mostly because of him.

                One particular night after she’d come back from an away camp in France with the Harpies, she’d made a date with an acquaintance, Zach. He’d been hanging around her friend group a lot. He was always asking her out, trying to make plans, but she usually blew him off. No matter how often she insisted she wasn’t interested in a relationship, Zach seemed to think he had a shot. Eventually, he’d thrown his hands up in defeat. “Fine. Dinner. Just dinner. _Friendly_ dinner.” Ginny agreed, hoping he’d back off.

                Zach made their reservations at Pied a Tierre. Expensive, extravagant, and everything Harry would have hated, she thought sullenly. Those thoughts came often; what Harry would think, where Harry would have taken her, what he would have said or done. The first few times she thought she’d been romanticizing him, putting him on a pedestal. But then, of course, everything she thought he would do, was something that he did even in their foursome. Ron and Hermione let him choose the places they went to eat, for privacy’s sake, and Hermione would thoroughly vet the owner before they went there. Harry thought it was a bit absurd, but the extra precautions were useful. He ordered in moderation, split the check, was overly kind to the wait staff, and tipped excessively generously. People loved him. _Him_ , Harry, the man, not the name.  So Zach was insufferable by comparison. A good laugh and a good time, fit and attractive, but insufferable.

                He was in the middle of a story about his university days when a manager interrupted him to give Ginny a note. Zach barked at the poor man, making him stammer. Ginny scowled and told him to shut up.

                “Monsieur, est-ce une urgence?” she asked sweetly. Yes, Fleur and Hermione had finally ganged up on her and made her learn the language since the Harpies did so much training there. She hoped that her tone made up for Zach’s rudeness. The manager seemed to calm down. 

                “No, Madame,” he said calmly, handing her the note. “It was not indicated as such.” He smiled brightly at her and then shot daggers at Zach before whirling off to the kitchens again. She hurriedly opened the note, recognizing the handwriting.

_Gin,_

_Went walking. H & R at Grangers. Just letting someone know. _

_H_

_PS: Would have sent the Stag, but didn’t know if your date was a muggle?_

                He must have used Pig, she thought, since he still hadn’t replaced Hedwig. As if any owl could replace her. There were only a few places Harry would walk to alone. She knew his favorite. She could be there in ten minutes, maybe beat him to it.

                “I’m sorry, Zach,” she muttered, standing abruptly, “I have to go.”

                “What? Why? He said it wasn’t an emergency, right?”

                Ginny rolled her eyes. Great, he knew French. So fucking what? “No, not an emergency, but it’s important. So I need to go.”

                “What, is it another bloke?”

                She scowled. Ginny, to be frank, was very blunt. If Harry got word to her that he needed to walk or go or, well, anything, she would go. Regardless of her social schedule, even mid-date. He never asked her to, but it was done anyway. Harry would always come first, and no one she went out with ever seemed to get on board with that. Which was fine with her, there was always another in line willing to take their place. Harry told her he didn’t want to know if she went to bed with any of them. Ginny told him that she never would.  

                “I told you I wasn’t interested in a relationship with you.”

                Zach shrugged his broad shoulders, ones that had seen more weights than practical experience. “I thought I could change your mind.”

                “Stupid of you.”

                His jaw dropped a fraction, and for a second she felt bad about it until she remembered how he’d treated the manager.

                “Zach, this is _just dinner_. I’ll pay my share. But I have to _go_ because someone very important to me needs me. So quit being childish!” she snapped. Ginny threw a couple of galleons on the table for him and then threw her purse over her shoulder and stormed out of the restaurant before she could strangle him. The maître di was already calling her a cab, and she smiled graciously at him as it pulled up.

                “South Bank, please,” she chirped at the driver. “As close to the fountain as you can drop me.” The driver grunted in assent, and she fell back against the seat as they drove off. Ginny had never felt better.

                She beat him to the fountain by five minutes. It gave her some time to settle down and put Zach from her mind. Not to mention, she came up with several excuses and tall tales to tell him about why she’d ditched a date after getting his note.

                “You know,” she hear him drawl out behind her, “My stalkers aren’t usually as pretty as you.” She feigned being overdramatically flattered, making him snort, and he leaned against the railing next to her. He was wearing a long, dark pea coat and a crimson red cap on his head. She figured everything else was taken care of by warming charms. She’d dressed in a classy olive green halter dress, black tights, and black fluevogs with a bow. She was bundled up in her long coat that was two shades darker than her dress. She felt overdressed and silly for deciding to walk in her heels with him. Sometimes he walked for hours. “Date was a bust?” She hummed. “Ugly, huh?”

                “He’s a _model_ , Harry,” she teased. That certainly had him rolling his eyes. Well, Zach _was_ a model. “Nah, I got your note.”

                He leaned back to look at her, “I didn’t mean for you to leave. Ron just has fits when I don’t tell people where I’m going. You’d think he’d be used to it by now…” Harry shrugged.

                “Well,” she chirped, “Like you said. Date was a bust. Walk with you sounded better.” He eyed her warily but held out his hand to her all the same. Smirking, she cast a cushioning charm on her feet to help with the heels situation and took his hand.


	11. Chapter 11

                It was Christmas, the second Christmas after the final battle, that Harry finally told her about the Horcruxes.

                Everyone had gathered to the Burrow, a little more settled and a little more willing to make sacrifices to be together. Ginny and Hermione had come over in the morning, greeting a very pregnant Fleur, Bill, Charlie, and Percy, all of whom arrived the evening before, with happy peals of laughter. George and Andromeda bearing Teddy arrived at nearly the same time, popping in at the gate and making their entrance together. He told everyone Angelina was spending Christmas with her folks, but would be over for Boxing Day. Ron and Harry were the last through the door, still miraculously before dinner. They were on duty for Christmas Eve, but had all of Christmas Day and Boxing Day off. They’d both be working New Year’s Eve, though. Ron went barreling in, starving after a day of stakeout rations, and more than ready to see Hermione. Harry lingered momentarily behind him, savoring what he could. He could feel the heat coming off the house, all lit up with strings of lights at awkward angles and lights on indoors, he could smell Molly’s Christmas pudding, her breadsauce and parsnips, the goose, trifles, and mince pies. Cider, Arthur had made the cider, and Fleur’s…something. He could never pronounce it, but it was delicious, no matter what Ginny said. Wafting out with the heat and food smells was loud conversation, spotted with laughter, the grumbling of well-placed barbs. _Home_.

                “Come on, Harry,” Ron groused from the doorway. “You’re lettin’ the cold in!” With a small smile, Harry stepped up into the house and was immediately encased in that warmth, not to mention several rounds of hugs. Fleur had waddled over to greet her _favorite brother-in-law_ , which never failed to make Ron blush whatever shade was darker than crimson. She hugged Harry next, kissing his cheek. The boys called their greetings from their respective chairs and sofas.

                “Mione?” Ron called out loudly, as he stripped himself of his warm things, deliberately throwing them at Harry so he’d have to put them up.

 _“Kitchen!_ ”

                Harry, master of wandless magic, used a charm to strip off his winter things, and apparated with a loud crack into the kitchen, promptly sitting down in a chair as Ron ambled in.

                “Show off,” he grumbled as he passed the table wrap his arms around Hermione who was washing dishes the muggle way. There was a soft thud next to him, and Harry turned with a grin to find Ginny sitting next to him. She’d put a tray of tarts on the table.

                “Lo,” he said, swiping one unrepentantly.

                “Mum’s gonna kill you,” she sang out. “You’ll spoil your dinner!” Ginny was wearing one of his old jumpers, he noticed, not the first one he’d gotten because that was a treasured item in his old school trunk, but the fourth, the one with the Hungarian Horntail. He must have left it there at some point. Leave it to Ginny to pilfer it. Thinking, for a moment, that she’d had it all this time and wore it regularly, made his breath hitch. Clearing his throat, he struggled to remember his witty riposte.

                “Not if she doesn’t know,” he sang back. Pathetic.

                As if her ears were burning, Molly Weasley burst into the kitchen from the parlor with a basket of linens, yelling out to the boys to start setting the table and asking Fleur if everything was ready. Seeing Harry, she hardly paused, but grabbed his chin to put a kiss on his cheek before she kept about her business. Ginny laughed at Harry’s twisted up expression, one eye shut. He shook it off.

                “I will never get used to Weasley affection,” he grumbled to her. Ginny sparkled, throwing her arm around his shoulders to press a different kind of kiss to his cheek. She didn’t break eye contact as she did, all the mischief bubbling to the surface. Her skin was much tanner now, not truly tan, but tan for a Weasley. The smattering of freckles across her nose and cheekbones were more pronounced, and the strong line of her jaw jutted out slightly more than it used to now that her baby fat had melted away due to the Harpies’ rigorous training schedule. Her vanilla scented perfume was sharper this close to him, and he suddenly had the urge to find out if the scent would change based on location.

                “Ahhh- _haha-_ hem!” Behind them, George stood with his hands on his hips, mimicking Mrs. Weasley’s sour look of disapproval with ease. Harry almost yelled in protest when Ginny backed away.

                “Always interrupting,” she griped. As she stood up, Ginny let her hand (which had mysteriously ended up on his thigh without his notice, some Auror he was) draw up his torso, neck, and ear to drag through his hair. He watched her go to find her mother. George eagerly dropped into Ginny’s vacated seat, leaning his head on the palm of his hand, waiting for Harry to look at him. Of course Harry knew he was there, staring, because that’s what George did.

                “You’re in trouble,” George said waggling his eyebrows.

                “Piss off.” George used his free hand to clap it on Harry’s back, squeezing his shoulder a little too hard, making Harry wince. “George, seriously. We aren’t together.”

                George snorted. “Tell _her_ that.”

                “You think?”

                “Mate, make a move or I’ll make it for you.”

                “Smarmy creep.”

                George waggled his eyebrows again before darting away. He wasn’t going to make it through the night if that’s what they were opening with. No doubt they were all talking to each other, whispering about what they should do about them. So long as it wasn’t Molly, everything was kosher.

                Christmas dinner with the Weasleys was a fantastic affair, as always. Not nearly as somber and hurried as the year before. For one, George smiled a lot more. Every so often, something pained and broken would streak across his face because of a realization or a memory, but these days, those looks were melting into soft, resigned smiles. Fred wouldn’t want George to be sad every time he thought of him. It was good. Percy, the twat, launched a debate on wizarding policy that involved almost the whole table, excluding Harry, Molly, Andromeda, and Ginny, who couldn’t be bothered with the finer details. Ron and George were ferociously arguing the effects whatever it was had on small businesses, Hermione and Arthur argued from within the ministry, Bill objected for a lot of banking reasons, Fleur and Charlie said it didn’t make sense on an international scale, and Percy was left to defend the thing from all of them. Harry couldn’t give a damn about the policy, it was something about property holding and leasing. He was content to sit quietly amid the yelling and good natured ribbing. Ginny was happiest egging them all on, asking questions that might have bordered on insightful if they weren’t meant to goad someone into protesting. Eventually Molly put a stop to it by proclaiming that the next person to talk shop at the table was on dish duty.

                The truce last all of five minutes before Hermione made some bold face comment to Percy, and the conversation devolved from there.

                At the end of it, Harry and Ginny were the only ones not on dish duty. So Harry swiped Teddy from his high chair and the two of them snuck into the living room, as Molly, Arthur, and Andromeda took the parlor. Harry had the boy on the floor in front of him, gripping his little hands as he stood wobbling. Ginny kept making faces, and whenever Teddy particularly liked them, he’d get a streak of color in his hair. Just a flash before it faded to jet black. Andromeda mentioned that it was usually a sandy brown until Harry showed up, and then it was black for days. They played with him for a while, Ginny kept trying to get the baby to say her name. Harry laughed, making animals noises. Teddy would try to identify the animal with a body part. He gave himself a beak when Harry quacked, floppy ears when he woofed, and a pig’s snout when he snorted. They were in stitches, which in turn, made Teddy wobble spastically, screeching out his delight. Eventually, their games were cut short when Andromeda came to get him, claiming it was his bedtime. Ginny feigned protest, threatening to kidnap him. But Harry, feigning chagrin, took Teddy from her, planting kisses on his chubby cheeks, and handed him over to his grandmother.

                “We’ll be round tomorrow,” Andromeda assured them.

                “I can come get him in the morning!” Harry offered a little too eagerly, making Andromeda’s brows shoot up. He blushed, biting his bottom lip. “I just mean, that if you want to sleep in, take your time, have some quiet. I can come get him ready and bring him over for you.” He was rocking on his heels, Ginny snickering behind him. But the older woman just smiled and tilted her head.

                “Of course, that would be lovely, Harry, thank you.”

                Andromeda flooed out with a babbling Teddy just as Bill burst through the door.

                “Oi, love birds! Exploding snap. Living room. Right now.” He threw a finger at one and then the other before disappearing through the door again. Harry rounded on Ginny.

                “What _is it_ with your brothers today? First George, then Charlie giving me looks all through dinner, now Bill. I mean, _Bill_ , Ginny, really?”

                Ginny shrugged, “Maybe Charlie fancies you,” she said as she walked through the door he held open for her. He swatted at her. “Oh all right, it’s Charlie’s fault. He’s been _talking_ to them. About me. Dating. My trips abroad, _for the team_.” Oh, she didn’t look happy about that. “Apparently, he’s decided that the best thing would be for you to just propose already and make me settle down.”

                Harry shot her an innocent look and then pointed at himself questioningly, mouthing _me?_ Ginny barked out a laugh. It was pretty absurd. Harry’s life was outrageous, working one of the most dangerous jobs on the books, dodging crazy fans and paparazzi, and he was helping raise his orphaned godson. There was absolutely nothing “settled” about him.

                “Yes, but they like you and you’re one of _them_. Which is better than me bringing in an _outsider_ as George put it so eloquently.”

                Harry waggled his eyebrows, “All in the family, eh?”

                “I, too, made a Malfoy joke,” she deadpanned. They were rounding their way into the living room where the others had set up a triple deck game, and they took their seats on the floor (cushions provided by Hermione). Fleur was sitting out, preferring to learn some knitting patterns from Molly. George heatedly argued with Percy about the rules for a triple deck game. Percy obviously wanted to keep the rule in place, while George did not. The others seemed annoyed, but weren’t too bothered by waiting them out. Hermione was in Ron’s lap, much to Harry’s amusement since she blushed a pretty pink on the corners of her cheek before sticking her tongue out at him. _Very mature_ , he mouthed. Ron, apparently sick of the arguing, declared they would play in teams. Him and Hermione, George and Percy, Bill and Charlie, and Harry and Ginny.

                “See?” he snapped, “Easy. Let’s play.”

                It was a long few rounds. Ron and Hermione were out after the first, George and Percy in the second. So it came down to a fight between the older brothers and Harry and Ginny. All Gryffindors. All superbly competitive. There were singed fingers and hair tips, some scowling and yelping. Ron and Hermione were too busy cuddling, but the rest cheered them on.

                Harry and Ginny won. Narrowly, but they won. And they were not magnanimous or gracious or humble about it. Beating Bill and Charlie as a team took skill, it afforded them privileges that simply could not be overlooked. There was a synchronized victory dance from their days on the Gryffindor quidditch team which was performed to much booing and jeering. They finally flung themselves back down on the floor, laughing until their ribs cages hurt. Neither noticed the questioning looks shot across the room and over heads at Ron and Hermione, who shared their own look, and then shook their heads ruefully. Easy physicality was nothing new between Harry and Ginny; the Weasleys were beginning to despair.

                They needn’t have.

                When things settled down as much as they ever would, George fetched firewhiskey and butterbeers for everyone, but Harry jumped to his feet and stretched like a well-fed cat. He certainly felt like one. Felt more connected and more alive than he had in a long while, surrounded by most of his favorite people with the anticipation of seeing more of them the next day. And that meant it was as good a time as any to take a trip. He looked down to see Ginny staring up at him, at the thin strip of skin exposed where his shirt lifted, and he smirked, quirking up a brow. She wrinkled her nose.

                “I could use a walk,” he said blandly, no one paid him much attention. “Fancy one last trip to the dead?”

                Their trek through the snow was brisk, and they huddled together despite the well-placed warming charms on their mittens, socks, and overcoats. Snow had fallen thick and heavy the day before, blanketing the fields and the tops of trees. Living in London, Harry tended to forget how quiet the countryside was at night, especially in winter. For all he knew, he and Ginny could have been the only living things for miles in any direction. He could look up and see every bloody star in the bloody sky, and he wouldn’t know a single one except for Sirius, but she would. Because Ginny paid close attention during Astronomy. She paid close attention to everything she liked and enjoyed, until every detail was fleshed out. And maybe it was later than she’d originally intended, but she was fleshing him out piece by piece until he was a whole thing again. Not some half-life waif stuck in limbo between the living and the dead, but a fully living, breathing human being with a past and a future instead of Fate. It was late when they reached the pond, which was frozen over given the time of year. But Harry didn’t come for the pond, exactly, and he didn’t really come to sit or to relieve his restlessness.   

                Ginny didn’t move away when they stopped, she moved in closer. His hands fell easily to her waist, gripping her to him. Hers went up to cup his neck, playing with the small hairs at the nape. She had those brown eyes of hers upturned at him, waiting.

                “I’ve—” his voice creaked, “I’ve only got one story left. The only story you don’t know now.” She tilted her head, arms tightening just so. Inhaling deeply, he looked over her head, over to the pond. It wasn’t so dissimilar to the one where he found Gryffindor’s sword, where Ron had found him at the bottom and saved his life. Where they’d had their first true success without Dumbledore. Tom had felt it, he knew, felt the niggling in the back of his mind. “I told you that while we were gone last year, we were hunting down objects that would help us kill Riddle.”

                She nodded, swaying into him, “Right, at Gringotts and Hogwarts.”

                “More places than that, actually. And they weren’t just objects. They were cursed with very dark magic, Ginny, so dark that…” He bit his lip. “He broke off pieces of his soul.” She gasped quietly, discreetly, like she didn’t want him to hear. “He killed people to fracture himself so that he could hide the pieces in those objects. He stored them there for safekeeping, just in case. Not once, or twice, but seven times. Six on purpose, one by mistake. Dumbledore didn’t know until the end about the mistake, and he decided not to tell me.”  She was trembling when he paused. “Snape was the one that did it. Gave me his memories, showed me what they already knew.”

                “Harry?” she breathed out, “Harry, tell me what the objects were.”

                He dropped his forehead to rest on hers.

                “Riddle’s diary.”

She sobbed, and he tightened his told on her, grinding his forehead against hers.

                “A ring that belonged to his mother.”

He let himself pause, let the cold dust across his face, shut his eyes to it.

                “A locket that belonged to Slytherin.”

                “A cup that belonged to Hufflepuff.”

                “Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem.”

                “His snake, Nagini, who Neville killed.”

                He couldn’t make himself say it. Not to her. Not with her looking so wrecked already. She’d just realized that the worst experience of her life was far darker than a good soul like herself could have ever imagined. She had just been told that her brother and best friends had been hunting down pieces of Tom Riddle’s soul in order to destroy it. She’d carried that diary around for a year, she knew what kind of power it had over a mind and a body. He could stop. He could leave it at that. Ginny didn’t need to know, she didn’t need that burden, that weight on her. Tony, much like Hermione, had guessed. He guessed from Harry’s opinions about the afterlife, about death and dying, and what had happened. He had pieced it together from the blood magic, the rebounding curse, their well-established connection, Harry’s ability to speak Parseltongue. He had the advantage of distance, information, and Harry’s attitudes to inform him. If Ginny suspected, she had never mentioned it.

                “Harry,” she dropped her forehead to his chest, pushing, her nails digging into his skin. “Tell me the last one. Tell me!” Her voice was raw, grated, liked she’d just screamed out so loud that she wrenched muscles in her throat. Like she didn’t want him to say it either.

                “ _Ginny_ ,” he whined, “It was _me_.” She froze, no more sobs forthcoming, and then raised her eyes to his. They were wide and full of horror and unshed tears. It was shock and amazement and anguish, and she laid it all out for him. Her hands came away from his neck, trembling as she laid them on his face, the left going up to trace the scar.

                “He…” she sobbed, her hands gripped his face tight.

                “He tried to kill me. And when he couldn’t he left a piece of himself in me. So in the end, to kill him, permanently, he had to do what he couldn’t do the first time.”

Ginny sobbed, knees almost giving out on her. He held her up, forcefully continuing.

                “There was no more Blood Magic.” She was crying against him, hands uselessly against his arms, “No more family. No more Dumbledore protecting me. It was just me in the Forest, Ginny, Just Harry.”

                “ _No_!”

He was crying now too, silent tears, ones that he’d become reconciled to. It meant he was still here. He was alive and Riddle wasn’t.

                “He wanted it that way, both of them did. Him and Dumbledore. I had to be alone when I went to face him. Dumbledore gave me the Resurrection Stone, the stone from the story that brought the brother’s dead lover back from the grave? He gave it to me, so that my parents and Sirius and Remus would follow me to my death. He thought that it would keep me going, that it would make me want to die. Give me _courage_ to die.” His hands came up to her ruddy cheeks, used his thumbs to wipe away her tears. He wanted to comfort her, console her, but there was only the last piece. “Ginny, I was supposed to die. Actually die, and I did, and it wasn’t a metaphor. Neville was supposed to kill Nagini, the last Horcrux, and then Tom Riddle would have been powerless to the simplest of spells. He was nothing in the end, not living, not dead. Just nothing. And he wanted to drag me there with him.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, rested there. “They didn’t count on you, Ginny.” He cupped the back of her head with both hands as she cried. “He shot that killing curse at me, and I didn’t even see green. All I saw was you.” She threw her arms around him again, rocking. “The Elder wand had to be dealt with, but Ron and Hermione would have known what to do.” His voice had cleared, so had the tears and the hurt. “You’re my unfinished business, Ginny,” he whispered, pressing kisses to her face where he could reach. “And I’ll haunt you until the end of time.”

                Impatient as ever, his Ginny was, because she grabbed his face and brought his lips to hers without much preamble. And it was a ferocious assault on his person and senses. She bit and nipped, her nails digging into his skin, and she drew a little blood. The taste of it lay between him, proof positive that he was a living thing. Ginny moaned, her hands moving into his hair as he opened up for her. She was aggressive, for sure, but at the first touch of his tongue to hers, her knees jerked, almost giving out on her. So Harry braced her up by the small of her back, one hand going low enough to cup just under her hip, bringing her up tighter against him.

                Kissing Ginny was easy and addicting, and he pressed in and in, tilting his head to slant his mouth over hers. Harry took her top lip between his, then her bottom and bit down and swiped his tongue to soothe. And then her tongue was back, tangling with his, making her hands grip his hair tightly. And _Godric_ , he loved when she did that. He tried his best to convey that, to put into the kiss the things he wanted to say. Things he hadn’t said yet. Because he _would_ say them, he would say anything she wanted, anytime, ever because all he wanted was to see her smiling at him. Harry was so far gone into Ginny Weasley that he’d become comfortable and had absolutely no desire to navigate his way out. But if they continued what they were doing, he was going to do something foolish, and for the first time in those long moments, he felt the cold biting at his cheeks. He slowed their kiss to a stop, nuzzling her mouth, pecking its corners and the upper dip.

                “If you keep saying things like that, I’ll end up shagging you in some…inappropriate places,” she breathed heavily. Her breath ghosted against his lips which were oversensitive, and he couldn’t stop himself from kissing her soundly once more. Her hands had drifted down to cup his neck again, fingertips still dragging through his hair. Kissing her was just perfect, better than firewhiskey, he’d once thought. Better than oblivion. Her body pressed eagerly into him, thigh fitting between his to get as close as possible. When he broke their kiss, he pulled a hand down through her hair, flipping it over her shoulder, tangling in the ends. “They’ll know something’s up the second we go back in there,” she whispered after a moment.

                “Does that bother you?”

                “No,” was her instantaneous response, which made him grin. “You?”

                He stroked her hair thoughtfully, “Not as much as it used to. Not from them.”

                “They’ll give you a hard time.”

                “They’ll give _you_ a hard time,” Harry snorted. He was still struggling to deal with the idea that he’d just confessed, all on his own, that he’d been Tom Riddle’s final Horcrux, and now they were reestablishing their relationship. Figuring out the basics. “Everyone will know soon enough,” he followed up quietly. After what had just happened between them, there was absolutely no chance of him tempering his behavior around her. None. He would touch, hold, and kiss her when and how he wanted as long as she wanted it too. Maybe not in front of her parents, but still…

                “Luna will be so crushed.”

                “Though I imagine her boyfriend will _not_.”

                “Boyfriend?” Ginny asked incredulously, “What boyfriend’s that?”

                “Dunno, she’s very tight lipped about it. S’pose we can wring it out of her tomorrow.”

                “I insist!”

                Harry laughed, squeezing her. Godric, he felt better than he had in months. Laughing at Ginny’s antics for no reason other than being amused. That was what made him feel most human again, what shook him out of his tomblike stupor. Laughing because of Ginny. Laughing because she was _funny_ , laughing because she was ridiculous and determined and so diabolical that he couldn’t help but pity her chosen victims. He groaned pathetically when she leaned into him.

                “Let’s go home, Harry,” she whispered, hugging him, her hand cupping the back of his head, “And…” she pulled back, looking over his shoulder at the still water behind them, “let’s not come back here again…yeah?”

                Harry bent to kiss her again, slowly and thoroughly, taking his time to reassure her. He pulled away only far enough to press his forehead to hers, “No more trips to the dead. Promise.”

                Being back in the house felt mind-blowingly good, he didn’t know if it was just because the house was warm or because Ginny was sticking closer to him than usual. The moment they were in the door, she was pressing into his space. He laughed at her, saying that they needed to get their coats off, but she just wandlessly charmed them onto the hooks and toed off her boots without moving away. Harry watched her, eyes hooded, with no small amount of amusement when she grinned up at him smugly. Like he was the only one who could do things without a wand? He couldn’t stop himself from kissing her before doing the same. But she wasn’t relenting on the no personal space thing, and hung from his neck so that he was forced to hold up most of her weight. Harry chuckled, trying to navigate the kitchen so they could get into the living room where everyone was still likely to be sitting.

                Harry was right, of course. He managed to tease Ginny enough to give him room to walk, but she still had a firm hold on his arm when they stumbled into the living room. Six sets of eyes were immediately on them, Fleur was the glaring exception, as she had fallen asleep curled against her husband. It made Harry stop short, considering his next move. He didn’t want to make some big announcement, didn’t want this to be drawn out longer than necessary, though. So his eyes went to the ones he knew would get it without much conversation. Ron and Hermione watched suspiciously as Harry’s arm went unhesitatingly around Ginny’s waist, hauling her up against him. Ron scowled, Hermione’s jaw dropped and her eyes lit up. Ginny, catching the looks on their faces, scowled too and dragged Harry over to the big armchair, sat him down, and promptly curled up in his lap. The room was completely silent for a moment until, Harry noticed, Hermione nodded. That’s when the room erupted and negotiations started.

                “Oh, no you don’t! You said the 18th of next month!”

                “Eh! It was eight galleons, not five!”

                “It was _conditional_ , Percy, it had to meet _all_ of the conditions!”

                “You utter sod, Ronald Billius, you _knew_ , didn’t you? Didn’t you!”

                Harry and Ginny witnessed all of the coolly and quietly, not making any comments as money changed hands and insults were swapped. It was decided that Ron had somehow cheated. George was very undignified in defeat. Percy had set far too many conditions on his bet. And, even though he was further off the mark, Charlie didn’t lose as much money as the others. Hermione, her arms crossed and eyes rolling, was very obviously amused by the Weasley brothers’ antics in spite of herself. Harry couldn’t figure out if she was more annoyed with them or herself. Eventually, everything settled down and everyone was back to staring at the silent couple. Harry just let his head fall back against the chair, eyes closing, as he unwilling to add any more fuel to the fire, as they say. Ginny lifted her head just enough to send a bollocks-shriveling glare at each of her brothers. Hermione snorted when they jerked back in tandem.

                “I hate _all_ of you,” she snipped primly, and then buried her face in Harry’s shoulder. They were all shocked when Fleur spoke sleepily from the couch.

                “It vould zeem I owez you a galleon, ‘Ermione.”

                Hermione smirked, flipping the page of a magazine in her lap, “Oh no, Fleur,” she said smoothly, “Hold onto your money until the end of the week. We’ll see if she gets violent by then.”

                The Weasley brothers winced.


	12. Chapter 12

                It was almost a year later, Christmas once again quickly approaching and the third anniversary on the horizon, that Harry had his last session with Tony. It was uneventful, more of an exit interview and exchange of pleasantries than anything else. Tony was still Harry’s secret, but they both felt that his support system had strengthened enough that their work was finished. Harry was a little sad, but Tony insisted they could keep in touch and that his door was always open.

                After his appointment, as usual, he was to meet Luna. Except this time, the whole of the Weasley brood were going to be in town. Percy and his fiancé, Audrey, had a lot of errands to do before their wedding, the girls had fittings, and the boys needed to get their own attire in order. Ginny had explained the long list of everything that needed to be done, including the Christmas shopping, but Harry’s head had been ensconced in her lap, her hand in his hair, so he hadn’t paid a lick of attention to what she was saying. They hadn’t had enough time alone together between their schedules and impromptu family gatherings. Andromeda had also been ill, so Harry had spent a good deal of his free time at her home, taking care of Teddy. So when they did have a moment, Harry had absolutely no desire to hear about family business. Actually, his head had been in a rather convenient position to begin…other kinds of activities, so honestly Harry had no clue what all the Weasleys were really up to.

                He flooed into the private office of the Leaky, something the new owner had offered him before Hannah left for St. Mungo’s. It caused less of a ruckus if he could slip through the tavern without showing up in a main entrance. The place was crowded and loud, what with students home for hols and stressed adults searching for gifts and the trimmings. Harry ducked his head, not making eye contact with anyone for fear of being caught. He kept to the fringes, moving toward the exit as quickly as he could. Before he could get there though, he saw Katie and Alicia in a far corner, who waved discreetly and then cried out that they’d just seen Gewnog Jones go up the stairs. All eyes riveted away from the door, Harry grinned at them and slipped out onto the street.

                Keeping his head low, Harry hurried down the familiar path to the chip shop. There were a few double takes and some odd stares from small children, but other than that no one seemed to notice him. His name didn’t come up too often anymore unless it was in relation to a death eater or Ginny, but people still approached him on the street. They still believed they had a right to his personal space and privacy. A woman the week before had ranted for nearly twenty minutes about her _concern_ for his personal relationships simply because Ginny had been seen out with her teammates and their significant others. One rag had cut the teammates from a photo entirely, leaving Ginny situated between two very fit blokes Harry knew were married to the girls who’d been cut. Ginny like the photo, actually, since she was very close to both of them, but was outraged at the implication of a threesome (or an orgy, since the wives had been spotted too). In the present, Harry counted himself lucky that Luna’s hair was bright platinum that stuck out in the slog of greyness, so he could pick her out easily. It helped that her companion’s flaming red hair was loose and uncapped, catching his attention quickly.

                They were busy examining a menu and so didn’t notice him. Cheekily, Harry sidled up behind his redheaded girlfriend, arms snaking quickly around her waist so he could lift her from the ground. Ginny shrieked, hand darting for her wand, until she heard Harry’s laugh and settled.

                “ _Damn you_ , Potter!” she laughed out, trying to keep her tone firm. Her giggle gave her away, and Harry thought he could die a happy man hearing that sound pouring out of her. Luna was simply smiling at their antics. Harry grinned over at his friend and then pressed a kiss to Ginny’s neck before setting her back down. She turned and was on him in a moment, catching his lips in a proper, hard kiss before pulling back and scowling. “You’re _late_.”

                “Only by five minutes!”

                “Mum was about to start a manhunt.”

                “She only asked Hermione to call that rumble phone—”

                “Mobile phone,” Harry corrected smoothly.

                “To make sure he was okay,” Luna finished. Ginny scowled. People didn’t really understand the way Ginny liked to wind people up. A ball of mischief, his girlfriend, but Harry could see through her ploys easy as anything. He’d made it his mission to spare people the humiliation when warranted. Grant you, there were certain cases when he felt no obligation to spare them at all. McLaggen, for instance, when Ginny had all but convinced him that Romilda Vance was obsessed with him. Romilda was dating a French dignitary who had a vacation mansion in Monaco, so McLaggen wasn’t on her radar. Funny as hell though. No, it was likely that _Ginny_ was the one who was worried since Harry had refused to divulge the details of his appointment. She’d been spectacularly acquiescent to his silence on the subject. He loved her for it.

                They went into the shop, stuffed full with Weasleys and their spares, to eat and go over what Ginny termed the ‘game plan.’ Again, Harry hadn’t the foggiest about what needed planning, but he suspected Ginny had no desire to do it. Whenever she was eager or enthusiastic about something, she took her time and was very thorough. But she was talking speed and efficiency, which left a few options.

                “Flowers...” he heard her say. That would do it. There was more back and forth that he ignored. “Invitations…” Someone asked if they couldn’t do it by owl? Hermione tsked, reminding them that anything with the name _Weasley_ was likely to be intercepted for inspection anymore. The last thing they needed was someone getting the date and location of the ceremony, especially since Percy was so high up in the Ministry. Who knew what kinds of crazies would show up? “Dress and shoe fittings…” Ginny’s voice was a low grumble, highly irritated, not to be trifled with. Harry hummed and passed her an extra crispy chip which he knew she liked. She accepted it with an easy grin, but not even a chip could ease the pain of dress fittings for six women. Ginny didn’t even like fittings for Quidditch robes.

                Once everyone had finished eating, they were off in a herd, jabbering about the best way to get to which shop. Harry held up the back of the group, kissing Ginny soundly before she darted off to catch up with her sisters-in-law, soon to be or otherwise. No one but Harry and Neville knew that a little black box was burning a hole in Ron’s pocket until the _opportune moment_.  Harry had six knuts that said he’d blurt it out in the middle of one of Hermione’s lectures. Neville thought it would be embarrassingly public and panic-induced.

                Ginny’s quick departure left him once again alone with Luna, who walked cheerfully beside him talking about her plans with her father and this _Rolf_ character that she refused to bring round to meet anyone. She claimed he was a lovely boy and all, but she wasn’t ready for the commitment he wanted, so she was keeping it casual. Harry thought she was being very silly, but Luna insisted that she was never _silly_.

                It was on their trek to Fortesque’s, a tradition Harry wasn’t willing to give up yet, that Luna was distracted by the Menagerie. She was making faces at a particularly active kneazle in the window. Harry looked up at the sign thoughtfully for a moment.

                “Luna, let’s go in.” She rounded on him quickly, moon eyes bigger than usual, and nodded.

                “Good idea, Harry.”

                They swept into the shop, bell announcing their arrival. It was mostly unnoticed because the shop was crowded. And loud. Between the conversations discussing the merits and faults of specific animals, animal feed and toys, and the hooting birds and meowing cats, the bell hardly registered. Luna was immediately taken in by the kneazle she’d been playing with which left Harry to wander alone. The walls and shelves were filled to the brim with feeds and toys, carrying cages and care manuals. There was an elongated perch on the upper part of the east wall, where owls of various types rested and hooted loudly. On the opposite wall were the cages of cats and kneazles, though a few wandered the shop freely. There was a pen full of ferrets, another one with rabbits, a charmed pond full of big toads of all colors, and there was a big glass case that was half shredded litter for its rat inhabitants to burrow in. There were even a couple of puppies in the back corner. Harry toured each spot, reaching out to scratch or pet or tease. Every animal seemed to be well cared for, and he vaguely recalled thinking the same thing when they’d come to get Crookshanks.

                Harry was making a face at the rat case when he heard a whoosh next to him. He turned to meet big yellow eyes, watching him. A barn owl with reddish brown feathers had flown down from its perch to a podium just next to the rat case. It was a pretty thing with a big round face, and a distinct coloring that Harry found somewhat amusing. A ginger, then.

                “Oh Merlin!” Behind him a clerk was rushing over, her frizzy hair bouncing around as she moved, grabbing a long glove as she went. “Apologies, sir, this one’s a right menace, she is.” She kept grumbling about how awful the bird was as she tried to get the thing to step onto her gloved arm. The bird screeched, bouncing from foot to foot, pecking out when she grabbed for her. Harry felt guilty, seeing as he’d taken a liking to the owl, and insisted it was perfectly all right, she didn’t need bother moving her.

                “Always terrorizing the rats…” she grumbled. It made Harry laugh out loud.

                “Not a fan of rats, myself,” he informed her. He reached out to stroke the owl’s feathers and her big head sunk down into her body, eyes fluttering. The clerk’s face pinched.

                “Is there anything I can help you with…? _Oh goodness Merlin!_ You’re Harry Potter!” That certainly did it. Harry didn’t even need to look around to predict the whole shop quieting, heads whipping around or peeking over shelves to get a look. He’d been caught.

                “Last time I checked, yeah,” he muttered in annoyance. Her mouth was gaping open, eyes comically wide. Merlin, he hated when they did that. Made it damn impossible to get anything accomplished. He chose to focus on the bird instead, who nipped playfully at his finger. She was a silly looking creature, skinny and bent like her bones had grown strangely. And those feathers were distinct. Could pick her out of a crowd anywhere.

                Luna approached them with the kneazle in her arms, “I don’t know if you’d noticed Harry,” she said a little too loudly, “But everyone in the shop is staring at you.” This must have shamed the other patrons into going about their business, but furtive looks were shot in his direction, and conversations resumed at a whisper.

                “You know, Loons, I really hadn’t. What do you think of this owl?”

                “Mr. Potter you can’t be…”

                “She’s quite lovely, isn’t she? All of that red in her feathers. It reminds me of Ginny’s hair.”

                Harry chuckled, scratching the bird’s head, “Me too.”

                “Mr. Potter we have better birds…”

                “How do you know they’re better?” Luna asked curiously. She was absolutely serious too, wanting know how to qualify better when it came to animals.

                “W-well,” the clerk stammered out, “We have eagle and imperial owls, ones that have been trained and have good manners. Owls with unique markings and rare colorings that isn’t so _common_!” She finished with a squeak. “Almost any owl in the shop would be a better fit for a wizard of your caliber, Mr. Potter.”

                Harry laughed so loud that he startled the bird in front of him. She hooted woefully, eyes opening wide before they fluttered again. As a peace offering, Harry held out his arm and she clambered onto it, nipping at his hair and snuggling in.

                “What do you think, Luna? I could do with a healthy dose of _common_ in my life.”

                “Oh but, Mr. Potter!”

                “It’s Harry, please, only my house elf calls me Mr. Potter and that’s because I can’t make him stop.” Kreacher was still at 12 Grimmauld Place, cleaning it up per Harry’s orders. They were renovating it, clearing it out of anything dark or cursed. They’d reached a compromise about how Kreacher was to address him, and Mr. Potter had been the middle ground. Hermione was _furious_.

                The clerk blew right past his request, “I couldn’t possibly let you purchase this bird! How would it look if we were to sell _you_ such a low quality owl?”

                Luna had stopped listening, tilting her head so that the owl would mimic her, “What do you think you’ll call her?” she asked dreamily. Harry scratched her head again, making her coo.

                “Risa,” he said on impulse.

                “Italian, isn’t it?” Luna asked rhetorically. “ _Laughter_. It suits her.” She smiled over at Harry. “And you.”

                Harry hummed and turned to the clerk. “I’ll take this bird. Along with two months of feed, some treats, and a bronze cage.”

                “I must insist…”

                “And if you could hurry, that would be lovely. We’ve ice cream to purchase.”

                So Harry walked out of the Menagerie with a new owl who was hooting happily as they went along. Luna ended up buying the kneazle, though she had two already.

                “The more the merrier!” she’d chirped.

                They bought their ice cream, sweet talking Mr. Fortesque into letting them keep their pets indoors while they ate it. They decided that they’d overextended their welcome with an owl and kneazle in tow, so they hustled out to go meet the others at the dress shop. Luna, apparently, had been listening when the Weasleys were making their plans. It wasn’t too far away, luckily, and they barreled through the doors in a loud racket catching the attention of the whole shop. At the sight of them, Ginny squealed and bolted, half dressed, to greet them. Her focus was on the owl he carried, but she kissed Harry absently as she stuck her fingers through the cage bars. Hermione was shouting at Ginny to have some sense and at least take a dressing gown, but was promptly ignored.

                “Oh Harry!” she cooed, bending to inspect his new pet, “She’s so pretty! Look at those feathers! Can I?” Ginny’s enthusiasm for animals rivalled Luna’s. It wasn’t really a request, so Harry didn’t bother stopping her from retrieving Risa from the cage. The shop owner shrieked out, but was pacified by Fleur, who informed her who had just entered her shop. This appeased her enough to keep from throwing Harry into the street for bringing an _owl_ into a _dress shop_. Ginny had the bird on her arm and was giggling madly as she nipped at her hair and cuddled into her neck. Harry watched her eyes light up like they did when she was out flying, and felt his chest twinge at the sight of it.

                “What’s her name?” she asked breathlessly.

                “Risa. It’s Italian,” he told _Ginerva_ , who beamed at him. “Means laughter.” Ginny scratched at Risa’s belly, making the bird squawk out shrilly. Ginny laughed prettily, her fingers sinking into the red feathers. Luna was absolutely right, it did suit him.

                “Hermione, did you hear that? _Italian_.”

                “Sì, ho sentito quello che ha detto,” Hermione said back easily, because of all the infuriating things, Hermione had started to learn Italian now that she’d mastered English and French. She was calmed down now that Audrey had distracted her with a dress issue. Ginny turned back to him with a roll of her eyes, mouthing _swot_. Harry just shook his head and reached for Risa to settle her back in the cage. He gave her a mouse treat and closed the door. Luna, kneazle on her shoulder, had gone to examine the dresses, asking Audrey a bunch of awkward questions about why those dresses and those colors.

                From what he could tell, there were three bridal parties there for fittings. They were each in alcoves, charmed large enough to accommodate the size of the group. Audrey’s was the smallest by far. And, as it turned out, Harry was the only bloke in the place, and he froze on the spot once he realized how many women were staring him down. Ginny noticed his tenseness and frowned, whirling around to glare.

                “Oi! Keep your eyeballs to yourselves, why doncha?” she bellowed out. About two dozen grown women flushed head to toe, and swiftly looked away, going back to what they were doing. Ginny bounced to look back at Harry with a smug smile; he’d pressed his lips together, tongue shoved to the corner of his lower lip, and shook his head at her antics. She cackled, kissed him, and dragged him over to Weasley alcove. The girls were getting restless, waiting for Audrey’s dress to be fitted correctly. If Hermione was detail-oriented, then Harry didn’t have a word for Audrey. Ginny liked _persnickety_ just because it suited her need for the ridiculous. Hermione liked meticulous, though, even she would admit that Audrey’s standards were somewhat high. She had a high forehead and sharp cheekbones, loose brown hair that was neatly straightened and fell below her shoulders. She wore glasses, high-waisted skirts and smart jackets. She was taller than Percy, slender, and spoke with a sharp, authoritative voice that disconcertingly reminded Harry of Madam Pomfrey.

                But she had pretty good taste in dresses, from what he could tell. The details and names of things escaped him, but the gown was a creamy white and was hemmed with shiny crystals. The neckline curved over each breast and a sheer fabric looped around her shoulders and back. For once, her hair was tied up, showing the line of her neck, emphasizing her cheekbones. The skirt was full, and bunched and draped lushly.

                “You look beautiful, Audrey,” he said setting Risa’s cage down on a nearby table. Audrey blushed and stammered out her thanks before squeaking when an enchanted pin poked her in the side. Eventually, her sisters were fitted for their gowns, taking their turns in front of the mirror. Harry was brought a tiny cup of tea which he accepted from a blushing clerk who couldn’t get a word out at a normal volume. He was grateful at least to have something to hold onto. Ginny and Luna were of no help because they were helping Fleur and Hermione into their gowns, and talking about the various features that needed work. So he was utterly lost, though it was somewhat pleasant to be in the midst of something so normal and happy. He was still getting used to Hermione just being a _girl_. A girl who wasn’t Harry Potter’s best friend, the brains behind the Boy Who Lived’s plan to defeat Voldemort. She wasn’t fighting a war or hiding from a corrupt government, she was just Hermione Granger, solicitor for the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Just another young professional trying on a dress for her friend’s wedding. Ron had better get it together, and fast, because while Harry often forgot how beautiful Hermione was, the rest of the world would not. She must have sensed his staring because she turned and caught his eye, offering him a watery smile.

                “Oh don’t look at me like that, Harry,” she grumbled, batting at her face, “ _I’ll start crying_.” He just pulled his lips in and continued to stare at the woman who’d always been his sister. The gown made her look positively regal, more austere and heart-wrenchingly pretty than usual, but it was really more the idea of the gown. It was the idea that she was there and well enough to try one on for such a happy occasion, no number in a registry, no threat of torture and execution looming overhead. Harry knew she was thinking it too, the way her fingers drifted over the faint outline of scarring on her forearm. Not for the first time he wished they’d been able to heal that sooner. Fleur did the best she could, but it was still visible. Thankfully, Audrey’s would be a winter wedding, so the girls were in deep burgundy gowns with transparent sleeves that ended in cuffs at the wrist. But then, Hermione and Fleur were getting out of their dresses and Fleur was helping Ginny into hers, so Hermione came to sit next to him on the sofa. He reciprocated when she leaned her head on his shoulder.

                “Ginny’s worried about the color,” she mumbled, a little miserable. _Oh_ , that’s what she’d been complaining about. He hadn’t really paid attention to that part, but it made sense. She was very sensitive about her hair clashing with the colors she wore. “But Audrey knows what she’s doing, I think it’ll work.”

                “Oh Hermione,” he breathed as Ginny stepped out to stand on the pedestal in front of the mirror. As she was so petite, the skirt was much longer on her and the sleeves sagged just across the line of too much, but none of that took away from her in it. The bridesmaids’ gowns had a deep vee neckline that came up to clasp at the shoulders. There were little capped things on the top where the sleeves started. The rest of the gown draped and bunched, and it was cinched at the waist by a belt that had a jeweled clasp. All he could think was that she looked like some reborn Grecian goddess with all that gleaming red hair. “You are absolutely right about that.” He absent-mindedly handed his tea cup off to her and took a few quick strides to stand in front of Ginny. She saw him coming in the mirror and held out a hand; he took it and kissed the inside of her wrist.

                “What do you think, boyfriend? Will it do?” she asked cheekily, jutting a hip out, making the seamstress tut.

                “It’ll do…something.” And really, when she was smiling at him like that, how was he supposed to help himself? He stepped up on the edge of the pedestal to kiss her, hands cupping her face so he didn’t disturb the dress; he had that much control at least. Ginny smiled into it, her hands on his forearms. Faintly, he heard someone squawking at him to _desist_ , but Harry was rather preoccupied. It was Ginny who broke the kiss, kissed his nose in consolation, and laughed lowly at his pout.

                “Harry, the nice lady needs to fix my dress.”

                “Can’t she do that later?” he whined. With a laugh and a gentle shove, she pushed him away, making him go back to his seat. He settled for staring at her bemusedly, idly letting Risa nip at his fingers through the cage.

                “Oh Merlin,” Hermione mumbled, “You’re done for, aren’t you?” She nudged him in the arm, but he kept his eyes locked on Ginny who caught his gaze in the mirror and winked before ignoring him again.

                “Little bit, yeah,” he grumbled back.

                “Do you think you’ll…you know, propose?”

                “Goyle and Dolohov are still on the run.”

                “That’s not…”

                “It _is_. Besides, she’s still trying to make a name for herself. Last thing I want is for _Quidditch Weekly_ to start referring to her as _Potter’s Wife_ or _Mrs. Potter_.”

                “You don’t think…”

                “I _do_ think,” he shot back, “Few years from now, it’ll be a joke that lasts a week, and then people will get over it. Once I get Goyle and Dolohov…”

                “ _If_ you get them.”

                “ _When_ I get them, they’ll talk about me for a while, and then time will pass and no one will remember my name.”

                “That’s very doubtful, Harry.”

                “Well, it won’t be so public. I won’t be in the papers, hopefully no one will care about my love life…”

                “That will never happen.”

                “Always so helpful, you are.”

                Luna flopped down onto the sofa on the other side of Hermione. “All right there, Luna?” Hermione asked sweetly.

                “I’m not sure I understand all the bother with these dresses,” Luna started slowly, a line forming between her brows, “But I do find it highly satisfying to know that my friends are happy, so I’ve decided that it’s a good thing.”

                “Very kind of you,” Hermione said sincerely. She’d learned to temper her responses to Luna as to not provoke discussions that would take them in logistical circles for hours. Luna saw everything as an opportunity to learn, and she often turned to Hermione for information. They could go on for hours. Harry was thankful this wasn’t one of those occasions. Audrey called out to Hermione, asking her to go settle things at the front desk, indicating where her purse was. The three of them went to the desk and Hermione went over the bill with the clerk. Hermione was discussing price points for alterations, and asking after party discounts. She started digging around in Audrey's purse when Harry reached into his own pocket and settled the bill. Luna didn’t notice, but Hermione gaped at him.

                “I thought you already got them a wedding gift!” she hissed. Of all his friends, Hermione got the least worked up when Harry decided to pay for things. Usually, he resisted the impulse; the Weasleys didn’t like the implications and Hermione liked paying for her own things. But, Audrey wasn’t there and there were no Weasleys paying attention so…

                “I did,” he sang back, mimicking her tone. “So don’t tell her.” He whipped back to the clerk, a blonde woman who looked vaguely familiar. School? The Ministry? A match? A friend of someone’s? Who could tell? “And _you_ , don’t tell her either!” The woman squeaked out that she absolutely wouldn’t, her blush spreading to the roots of her hair. Harry smiled brilliantly at her.

                “ _Harry_ …”

                “Don’t _Harry_ me,” he snapped, turning off the small amount of charm he possessed. “I’ve got loads of money and nothing to do with it since you lot won’t let me spoil you.”

                Hermione scowled, “We were _not_ going to let you pay for the entire holiday.”

                “And so,” he said, signing the receipt the clerk handed him, “I shall pay for your alterations.” He held up a finger, “Don’t tell Ron.”

                “ _Don’t tell Ron_ ,” she snarked back at him, mocking his voice in a ludicrous manner. Well, it could have been accurate, he didn’t know, but it sounded ludicrous. “Honestly, you hunt down death eaters for a living and you’re afraid of my boyfriend’s so-called _wrath_.” Harry smirked. More and more lately, Hermione spoke possessively about Ron. It was getting damn near time for Ron to make a move.

                “Oi,” he censured without heat, “That boyfriend of yours gets going and everybody’s miserable. You should see ‘im in the office when someone snatches his pasties,” he grumbled. Ron was a goddamn miserable bastard those days. He was overworked and tired, stretched too thin. He was itching to get Dolohov. Once they had Dolohov, Goyle wouldn’t have the resources to stay hidden for long. Ron wanted to spend more time at the shop, and he wasn’t alone in that feeling. Neville wanted more time for his Herbology studies, too. They all wanted it to be over, him more than anyone.

                “Hey,” Hermione grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at her. She could read those moods that seeped from his eyes. They spoke in tilts of heads and silences; her checking in, him nodding reassurances before she released him and started up a conversation with Luna. It wasn’t long before he saw a flash of red hair and a body running toward him. Ginny jumped and he caught her around the waist, hauling her up against him. She wrapped her legs around his hips and her arms around his neck as they spun a little from impact. The clerk shrieked at their behavior, but Hermione just rolled her eyes and kept talking to Luna. Harry looked up at her, adoring every freckle on her face, while his hands cupped the underside of her thighs. Thank Merlin for auror training.

                “Hi,” she whispered, kissing his nose. He wrinkled it, making a face at her. Ginny bit down on her bottom lip, eyes flaring for just a moment. She leaned forward lips to his ear, “We should kick Ron out tonight.” Her thighs clenched around him just so.

                “ _Public_ ,” he whispered in a pained voice, feeling his trousers tighten.

                “ _Don’t care_.” She tightened her arms around his neck, and he inhaled sharply, feeling his nostrils flare wide enough to hurt. “I’ll just send Hermione to scare the paps into submission.”

                “I only do that on special occasions,” Hermione chimed in drolly.

                “It can be my Christmas present,” Ginny deadpanned, her eyes darting across Harry’s face, smiling when their eyes met. It was one of his favorite smiles, the cat that got the cream, anticipatory, predatory, and possessive. It boded well for his evening. But right then they were in a dress shop, loads of people watching them, photographers probably waiting for their chance. It wasn’t just _him_ they were after anyway; Ginny was a rising star in the wizarding world. Made Rookie of the year, had been bumped up from reserves, was second string now. She’d be starting in no time.

                “Harry,” Ginny laughed, hugging him to her, “Don’t be upset.”

                He wasn’t. “I’m not.” He pecked her cheek and hoisted her up. Wandlessly, he summoned Risa’s cage. She hooted disgruntledly in protest, but the cage floated evenly over to them. Ginny tilted her head at him and he mimicked her and moved to leave.

                “ _Harry Potter_!” Ginny squealed when he bounced her, “You naughty tosser!” He damn well knew every woman in that shop was watching them closely. He had the door blow open and walked through it with Ginny still in grasp and Risa’s cage floating along after them. At the first sound of his name and flash of a camera, Ginny ducked down to kiss him soundly.

                Molly Weasley laughed so hard she cried when she saw the _Prophet_ the next morning.


	13. Chapter 13

                Having Risa was better than Harry might have expected. Not only was she a cheerful presence in the auror office, interacting with whomever might come by, Risa was also very smart, very competent and very vain about it all. There were times when she glared that Harry could have sworn she was Hedwig’s sister. It was somewhat disconcerting that she learned his schedule so quickly, however. She would show up wherever he was going before he did. In fact, it wasn’t uncommon for her to show up at meetings or crime scenes to perch nearby and wait for Harry’s instructions. The other aurors took a liking to her, as their own owls were usually too lazy to leave their perches at home, let alone show up at the office. Ron liked her immensely, saying that she was much friendlier than Merlin but less stupid than Pig.

                “And you got her at the Menagerie? Since when do they keep quality owls?” Ron would scratch her head and feed her treats. “I wonder that you were able to pick her out at all.”

                Harry’s response was to shrug, “She picked me, mate.” But even if Ron did like Risa, Harry knew he _doted_ on Merlin, whose perch was not too far away. Merlin was Ron’s first significant purchase with his own money; a rare owl with unique markings that couldn’t be bought on your average market. He had big orange eyes and feathers that projected like horns. He was very obedient and hostile to strangers, but Harry couldn’t deny he looked bloody majestic in flight. Not to mention, his hostilities didn’t extend to Ron, only to strangers. Ron was so proud to own an owl of such a high caliber that he was prone to indulging the beast. Hermione put a stop to that almost right away, citing that eagle owls were especially dominant and that without a firm hand he’d become feral and impossible. The only person Merlin didn’t bite other than Ron was Hermione, and Harry swore one time the damn thing _purred_ when she pet him during a lunch visit.

                Regardless, having an owl again was convenient. Harry felt a little sad sometimes, seeing reddish feathers instead of white, but Luna had been right. He was fond of Risa for herself, which had no bearing on how much he’d loved Hedwig. Before the war, Colin Creevey had taken a picture of Harry with Hedwig on his arm, her big wings spread wide as if she was about to take flight. It sat on his desk in a frame with nearly a dozen others. Dennis had brought over a whole packet full of Harry-centric photographs, some better than others, when his parents finally agreed to clear out Colin’s room. That had been a hard day on everyone. Colin took so many pictures of so many people, some candid and some posed, that Dennis didn’t feel right keeping them. He spent a month meeting up with people, giving them away. Harry expressed his concerns, wanting to make sure Dennis was actually okay with giving his brother’s pictures away. Dennis had smiled at him, teary-eyed.       

                “I’ve plenty of his pictures, don’t worry. He would have wanted people to have them, to remember him by.”   

                Harry had clapped his shoulder, gazing at images of himself flinching or scowling, or just staring off into space. There was one in particular where Harry appeared particularly distressed and disheveled. “None of us will ever need an object to remember him, Dennis, but I appreciate the gesture. And I’m grateful to have these,” He picked up one he found unsightly, “Strange as they are. He could have made a fortune off of ‘em….”

                Dennis laughed loudly, a couple of those tears slipping out. “Oh he’d never have sold them. Think he only developed most of them for the practice. He had notes attached to the albums of yours.” _Albums, plural, really?_ “Sorted ‘em out, _Keep_ and _Give to Harry_ and _Bin_. I couldn’t bring myself to bin any of them, so that’ll be up to you…” He’d trailed off and grew quiet. “He respected you a lot.”

                “I was a prat to him,” Harry had grumbled.

                “Only because he shoved a camera in your face at every moment!” Dennis had offered back easily. He may have been the only member of the DA to talk about Colin’s faults those days. That’s just what brothers did. “He told me once that at first he’d started taking your picture because you were _famous_. Because you were The Boy Who Lived, and he wanted proof that he’d met you.” They’d both chuckled. “It all changed when Cedric Diggory died,” Dennis had said sadly. “I think he saw you come back from the maze and realized you were just a person…just a kid like the rest of us.” He had picked up a photo of Harry in his Triwizard gear, standing near Krum and Fleur, talking to Cedric. Cedric was smiling wide. “He told me you were just a kid who’d seen too many terrible things.” He had offered the photo to Harry, “All he wanted was to show you that you’d had a childhood. That there were good things too. That’s why he like taking pictures so much.”

                Harry kept the photo of him and Hedwig, along with those dozen others on his desk. Ron teased him about it, saying that he was getting Lockhart-level vain, but Harry noted haughtily that Ron kept one just out of view from the average passerby. It was a candid in the Great Hall in their third year maybe, Harry was scowling at the camera and Ron was laughing. Though, Harry suspected Ron kept it for the look on Hermione’s face. She was looking over at Ron with something a little like adoration and a lot like love. Even though those looks were increasingly frequent now, that black box was still burning a hole in Ron’s pocket. Harry didn’t know what the idiot was waiting for. He knew for a fact that at Audrey’s last fitting the girls talked Hermione into trying on a wedding dress. Wouldn’t have done it if she wasn’t thinking about it. Harry decided to give him another week before bringing it up again.

                At the present moment, he was walking the halls of 12 Grimmauld Place, just checking in. There was no logical explanation for his showing up there, as it was after midnight and Ginny was in his bed back at the apartment. He’d had a strange dream and he hadn’t been able to fall back to sleep, so his solution was to do something different. Walking was out of the question because a solid eight hours of sleep was rare for any of his friends those days, so he did the next best thing and apparated over. Kreacher had been waiting with hot tea and biscuits. Somehow the ancient creature always knew when Harry was going to show up. They chatted about the renovations, as Harry had put Kreacher in charge with some specific instructions for the crew. If the threat of Harry Potter’s wrath wasn’t enough to keep the construction crew in line, then Kreacher definitely was. He still wore the fake Slytherin locket around his neck and actually wore goblin-made suit. That had taken some doing on Harry’s part, getting him to wear clothing. He insisted on giving Kreacher wages for his personal use, and so convinced the house elf that he wasn’t being “gifted” the clothing if he purchased himself with his own earnings. This had satisfied Kreacher’s disdain, and kept Hermione off his back for keeping Kreacher around.

                At that point in time, the only thing underway was curse-breaking. The Black house was riddled with old magic and dark tricks for the unsuspecting intruder. He’d hired a whole team of curse-breakers from Russia to come in and sweep the place, using Andromeda as a consultant. She occasionally had to come and handle things herself, as it required a blood relative to nullify this curse or that. They’d started in the attic and were working their way down, finding all sorts of treasures and odd ends. Harry had to sort through everything that had been collected and cleared to set aside for Teddy in his vault. It was time-consuming, but they didn’t have any more leads on Dolohov, so his case load had evened out again.

                Surprisingly, most of his cases involved pureblood victims, purebloods who’d been sympathetic to the death eaters or just silent on the subject. Some of them were bureaucrats who’d been forced out of office after the war ended, some of them were those who refused to help the muggleborns escape or hide out from death eaters. These were the witches and wizards who avoided trials and fines, who weren’t sent to Azkaban or executed for war crimes. Harry struggled to remain impartial, but it was difficult when the victim was screaming _Mudblood Filth_ and all sorts of nonsense at their attackers. Harry might have hexed them too, given half the chance.

                There was still your average muggle baiting, which usually wasn’t so serious, just a prank gone wrong. Domestic abuse was running rampant, for reasons Harry found contemptible. People had been traumatized, were self-medicating, and lost control. Thankfully, Alicia Spinnet had started up a halfway house for witches and their children trying to escape the abuse. The house was under the Fidelius Charm, and she had a decent support staff to help them start a new life. Harry quickly referred them whenever the situation called for it. Of course, there was also just plain old murder for the sake of murder, and they always spiked after the holidays. Not four days into the New Year a wizard had killed his brother for embezzling from their company and family vault. Apparently the victim had a second family in Belgium and was hemorrhaging funds. The company went bankrupt as a result, and the family vault had been frozen by Gringotts until everything was sorted out. No Christmas for those kids that year. The accused went into a rage when his brother came round asking for money, again, and killed him on the spot. Harry figured it was nice to know that sometimes there was an explanation for the ugly things people did to one another.

                He’d finished the paperwork that morning and spent the rest of the day with Ginny in Holyhead. Watching his girlfriend fly was his 5th favorite Ginny-centric activity. The first four were sexual and Ginny insisted that counted even if he thought it shouldn’t. She’d been somewhat offended when he suggested that watching her fly was his _favorite_ , so he’d been forced to recant and reassess. Silly chit. So he watched them practice and then watched film with them. Since filming the games the muggle way had been _his_ idea, Gwenog was inclined to let him sit in. It helped that he was at almost every match and that it was widely known that Ginny would recite what was said during film sessions verbatim at the first opportunity. Ginny also suspected that Gwenog had a little bit of a crush on the wizarding world’s favorite hero, just like most of her teammates with the glaring exception of Valmai Morgan who thought he had an odd face. Harry was very fond of Valmai as a result.

                After film, they were caught by the mob at the apparating stations just outside the stadium. Since the initial attention was meant for Ginny and her teammates, Harry slunk to hide behind Ginny until she wrapped things up. Unfortunately, he was tall and his hair stuck out, so someone spotted him. Ginny wrinkled her nose when someone asked if they could get a picture with the two of them.

                “I scored twenty goals last match against the Wasps. What’s this git done recently, hm?” The poor kid looked like he’d swallowed his tongue from the way his eyes bulged and his face went pink. Ginny didn’t let up though, she stood there as if waiting for an answer until Harry scowled and caved in.

                “What she means to say,” Harry intervened drolly, passing off the camera to the kid’s friend so they could pose together, “is yes, of course, here, let’s have your friend take it.” Harry didn’t see the picture, but someone got a different angle and sold it to a gossip rag. He and the kid were smiling at the camera while Ginny smiled up at him. The caption read something inane about Ginny being enamored of the Chosen One while the article flagrantly suggested Harry was habitually unfaithful. Ginny facetiously asked for a list of names. Usually, they wouldn’t have said yes. Usually, they would have posed for a generic photo to distract the crowd of photographers before they apparated away. Usually, she was first in line to hex people who bothered Harry in public. It was just a reflex. But kids with cameras reminded her of Colin, and Colin was always to be indulged. She always made it worth his while, at any rate. Besides, it was a nice photo for once. He was sure that Mrs. Weasley would have it framed and up right alongside the one that had been taken of Ron and Hermione at a Ministry function and the one of Bill, Fleur, and little Victoire cheering Ginny on at a match. Ginny was convinced that her mother kept a running log of the pictures published along with the associated writers and photographers so George would know who to prank. It really wasn’t all that uncommon for the Improper Use of Magic squad to be called to publication offices where swamps, deserts, and hurricanes had suddenly and inexplicably formed.                

                After getting back to London, he and Ginny had a quiet night in with Ron and Hermione. He’d enjoyed himself so much that he didn’t have flashbacks to their school days, he didn’t think about anything other than the present moment and present company, things happening in the now, stories that were only days old, jokes that emerged in the previous few months instead of years. It was getting easier and easier for him to do, and he could tell Ginny noticed it. Especially when they went to bed.

                So roaming through Grimmauld Place, Harry decided to attribute the strange dream to being so relaxed. “Strange” wasn’t quite how he’d describe it though; it was just _different_. Most of his dreams, the ones he remembered, took place on his walk to the Forest the night of the battle, and the spirits of those who’d died during the wars. Some faces he’d only seen in photographs. Sometimes they were quiet and calm, sometimes they screamed in pain and outrage. It varied. So yes, this one was different. He found himself at Dumbledore’s grave; it was deadly quiet and he was alone, very much unlike the funeral he remembered. And from the treetops, Fawkes came swooshing down, flying right at him and then up into the sky and vanishing. Harry had woken in a cold sweat but not panicked. He hadn’t thought about Fawkes in years, and it disturbed him enough to prompt a visit to Grimmauld Place.

                He ambled through the darkened halls, glancing at the sleeping portraits who were quiet for once and peering into rooms that had been cleared out. He’d decided to take the number of rooms down from twelve to six, combining some to make bigger spaces. The attic was to be one big recreation area, though his taunting brain called it a _play room_. He wanted a big master suite with a private bathroom spacious enough for a tub. In fact, he wanted all of the rooms to have private bathrooms. It was a luxury that he’d never had, neither had any of his friends (excepting the only child-Hermione). He was keeping Sirius’ room as an office, and was enlisting Luna to figure out how to get the damn posters off the walls. The dining room needed repairs and so did the parlor. He wanted bigger windows to let more light in as well as an extra floo, considering how much foot traffic his apartment already got. The kitchen was to be upgraded according to Kreacher’s wants and specifications. And he wanted a large, secure storage cupboard for Ginny’s qudditch gear. Absurd for her to have to drop it at home when she could come straight there. So all of that was easy enough to figure out. The remaining problem was a room for Kreacher. He still slept on a pile of blankets in front of the cast iron stove in the kitchen. Hermione complained about it relentlessly, but it wasn’t as if Harry forced him to sleep there. He had free reign of the house! He could sleep anywhere! But he didn’t, and that needed to be rectified. The problem was getting it set up without knowing Kreacher’s preferences; he didn’t know if the house elf would rather be upstairs, downstairs, near the kitchen, _in_ the kitchen, or what. His gut said to make a wing off the kitchen, and to move the stove and Mrs. Black’s portrait in there. At least that way Kreacher would spend time in it, and Harry could sound proof the walls so he never had to hear that wretched woman’s voice again.

                He found himself in Sirius’ room, one of the few that hadn’t been cleaned out yet. Harry swore he’d take some time off soon and get it done, but he just couldn’t make himself do it. Sirius’ things, all that he had left of him, were painful to look at even still. But he went in anyway, thumbing through the magazines, picking up books and records. There were still clothes on the floor, the sheets were rumpled as he’d left them. There was even a bottle of firewhiskey, covered in a thick coat of dust, left out like he was coming back to finish it. Those horrid posters still stuck stubbornly to the walls, the velvet curtains had been parted to let in some light, and just about everything was defiantly red and gold. There were more personal belongings, since Sirius had moved back in after his escape. Specifically, there were a lot more old photographs, which Harry attributed to Remus.  He had so many of the Marauders. There were even some of his mum, hanging on his dad or flipping him off. Ron mentioned once how fit she’d been, and Harry couldn’t really argue. He wondered what she would have looked like now. That’s when he noticed a large, silver gray feather laying on the bedside table. He picked up gingerly, thinking that he was overdue for a visit to Hagrid’s.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My faves: Hagrid, Buckbeak, & Fawkes

                 Harry wanted to introduce Risa to Hagrid, and Ron and Hermione were insistent that they come along. Hermione wanted to see Hagrid badly to ask him about a creature that had come up on her docket, and Ron was still looking for an _opportune moment_. March was just around the corner, so his mate was getting a little desperate. The Anniversary would come on them quickly and then Hermione would get crazy busy at work before the Wizengamot let out for the summer. Then she was going on holiday with her parents. Ron couldn’t hold out until the fall, he’d bust. So, Harry took pity on him and accommodated his odd requests.

                 Hagrid’s hut was as cozy as ever, though Fang was grayer than usual. The half-giant cooed and spoiled a very happy Risa, and he told Harry all about this new type of feed and feather oil that he should start using. Hagrid was obviously thrilled that Harry had a new pet, but his grin was bittersweet, as he was probably remembering Hedwig. Harry patted his big hand and took the tea he offered gratefully. It wasn’t too long into their visit that he was fielding questions from Hermione who was taking notes and flipping through her files. When she was preoccupied, the boys talked Quidditch with Harry gushing about Ginny’s progress and Ron querying Hermione for some statistic he’d forgotten. Recently, she’d taken it upon herself to read (and subsequently memorize) historical facts and statistics about Ron’s favorite teams, Canons included. When he couldn’t remember it, Hermione could.

                 Hagrid cheerily announced that he was going to start dinner. This prompted Ron to shoot Hermione a fraught pout, so she sighed heavily and offered to help. Ron relaxed some after that, settling in to pet Fang. Harry told them he wanted to go see Buckbeak, maybe drop in on the thestral herd. It had been a while since he’d seen them. So he walked sedately out the back door and into the fringes of the Forest. He let out a low whistle that Buckbeak knew meant he was being summoned, and waited. The Forest was loud, loud with animal life, birds, and squirrels, and whatever ran around near Hagrid’s dwelling. Hard saying, knowing Hagrid. He didn’t have to wait long for Buckbeak to show; he cantered in from the west end, tossing his head wildly at the sight of Harry. They both bowed to each other, and then Harry approached to stroke his big head.

                 “Hey there, fella,” Harry cooed at him, “Been a while, hasn’t it? I’ve missed you. Found one of yours in Padfoot’s room.” Buckbeak let out a mournful wail. Harry never knew how Buckbeak could possibly recognize his former companion’s name, but he was always very sad whenever Sirius was brought up. “Yes, I miss him too. He really loved you.” Harry brought his hand down to burrow into the feathers at his shoulder.

                 “Wanna take a walk with me?” Buckbeak tossed his head, trilling. “Good, I could use the company.”They walked along of the edge of the Forest and over to the Shore of Black Lake, where the White Tomb, long since restored, rested. It had taken all of Flitwick’s considerable skills to mend the crack in the marble. Harry thought it brilliantly done. Buckbeak trotted to the tomb, licking it affectionately, before he curled up by it. Dumbledore had that effect on animals. Harry stood at the foot of it, hands shoved in his pockets.

                 “Hi professor,” he said evenly, “I’ve been to see your portrait, chatted, but this is different. I was dropping in on Hagrid and…Well, I had this dream. Godric, maybe I should have just gone to your portrait—”

                 Harry’s monologue was cut off by the sound of birdsong, a loud, sweet call that shook him to the bones. Fawkes. The big phoenix came from the Forest, circling until he came to perch on the tomb in front of Harry. Buckbeak lifted his head to see what the disruption was, but just huffed his annoyance and laid his head back down. Fawkes eyed Harry warily, letting out a happy squawk of recognition, lifting one foot and then the other. Harry’s heart was pounding so fast that for a moment he hardly reacted, eyes going wide. In a way, he’d obviously expected this. That the dream was a bid for him to return here, to meet Fawkes again. No one had seen the phoenix since Dumbledore’s funeral. It made sense that he would stay nearby though. Maybe it did, Harry didn’t really know much about phoenix lore. Perhaps Hermione would. The bird looked good, refreshed, as if he’d just been reborn.

                 “I thought I might find you here,” Harry said quietly. He pulled out one of Risa’s treats, offering it, open palmed, to Fawkes who pecked at it eagerly. “Must have been you who called out to me, right? That’s the only explanation I can think of. Did you want to see me? After all this time?” Fawkes tilted his head back and cawed sharply. Without any further preamble, the bird reached behind him, beak pecking into his own body and he plucked a tail feather, letting it drop to the tomb. Then another. Then a third. Three, long, red feathers lay there between them in stark contrast to the white marble.

                 “Are these for me?” Harry asked quietly. Fawkes cawed again, much more quietly. Affectionately, Harry hoped. “And what would I do with your feathers?” Harry watched bemusedly as the big bird leaned forward, head tilting to make better eye contact, and just when Harry was in a daze, Fawkes pecked out at Harry’s hand, making it bleed a little and making Harry yelp. The bird licked it then, and the wound vanished. Buckbeak glanced up, nonplussed. “I still don’t know what to do with them.” Fawkes used his foot to nudge them closer to Harry, squawked out, and took flight. The phoenix’s ascent was so sudden and so fast that Harry’s hair flew back as he watched him go. Fawkes flew straight up, feathers standing out like a bright burst of flame, before he veered and disappeared over the tree line of the Forest. So, Harry was left at Dumbledore’s grave with three phoenix feathers and a rather annoyed hippogriff. He picked up the feathers gently, trying to think what sorts of uses they had. Wand cores was all he could think of. But three? Fawkes had already given two, for his and Tom Riddle’s wands. Now three more. He put them carefully into his pocket, wondering at the oddity of magical creatures’ whims.

                 Years and years later, after Lily Luna was born, Harry would give those feathers to Ollivander’s nephew to make three phoenix core wands.


	15. Chapter 15

                Hermione Granger was officially and _finally_ engaged. To anyone who wasn’t her, the proposal would have seemed sudden or out of place. But one, Hermione wasn’t just _anyone_ , she was the woman who’d been paying very close attention Ronald Billius Weasley since they were eleven years old. _Of course_ she’d found the ring box. He’d been fidgeting for a week before she noticed he was accommodating something in his pocket, reaching for it. Did he suddenly forget that he left all of his laundry for her to do? Whatever. She’d known that he had it for a while, so she had plenty of time to weigh her decision before he worked up enough nerve to do it. _Of course_ she said yes. She loved Ron. She loved the life they were creating together. She wanted more, not less.

                However, that didn’t explain her sudden impulse to floo over to the Burrow at seven in the morning. All she knew was that she’d woken up with a tightness in her chest and the only person she could think of was Mrs. Weasley. Everyone knew that Molly woke up before the sun made an appearance, and since there were no redheaded children underfoot, there would be some privacy. She heard the clanking of the pots in the kitchen, a sure sign that she was cooking, and made her way there quietly. Molly’s back was to her, but even as she sat, a tea cup and kettle floated over to the table and settled themselves in front of her.

                “Thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” she said quietly. Molly Weasley hummed, turning and wiping her hands off with a dish towel. She’d lost a significant amount of weight since the battle. Mr. Weasley said it was stress, and not a small amount of depression. Losing Fred had taken a toll on all of them, but Molly and George felt it most acutely.

                “You’re up and about early, missy,” she said sunnily, smile broad on her face, “Everything all right, then?”

                “Yes…” Hermione said. She couldn’t stand to look at Molly as she said it so she looked down at her tea, fingering the line of the cup, “No. I’m not sure, really.”

                “Not like you to not know,” Molly noted, taking a seat across from her. Hermione pulled in her bottom lip, feeling silly and sheepish. She held her left hand out, tilting it down. Molly’s eyes widened as she squealed, clucking and laughing in her very singular way as she examined the ring. It wasn’t long before she was out of her seat hugging Hermione to her and kissing her cheeks. She took the seat next to Hermione, examining the ring again.

                “Ginny must have helped him choose a ring, that boy couldn’t navigate a jewelry shop to save his life.” She reached her hands out to cup Hermione’s cheeks again, “I’m so happy for the both of you, couldn’t ask for a better woman for my boy.”

                “Thank you,” Hermione said through the tears that had started to sting her eyes and the laughter that bubbled up from Molly’s enthusiasm. She cupped the hands that held her face so lovingly. “We would have flooed last night, but it was so late…”

                Molly waved her off, “Don’t be silly. Just tell me he did right by the proposal?” There was a slight frown between her brows that meant she didn’t have much hope. Hermione pinched her face, unfortunately she had to crush it.

                “Godric no, he’s hopeless.”

                Molly released her cheeks to shrug with her hands, “There’s only so much a mum can do when there’s six boys.”

                “Bill took all the flair. Percy has all the romance.”

                “Alas,” Molly said facetiously. “Pleased as I am to hear it, I know you didn’t come here so early to tell me how Ron proposed…And I doubt I would be the first on your list if you were having doubts…”

                “Oh!” Hermione blushed, feeling silly again. Maybe this wasn’t the best plan. “I don’t have…doubts, exactly. Ron’s the only one…I mean he’s…” She looked up to see that knowing smile on her future mother-in-law’s face her whole body heated again in embarrassment. She would _not_ gush about Ron, for heaven’s sake, not now. “It’s just…how old were you when you found out you were pregnant with Bill?” Her words seemed to echo loudly through the whole house. Molly’s face froze.

                “Dear me, you’re not…?”

                “No!” Hermione all but shouted. “No. _No_.”

                “I mean, I wasn’t much older but…”       

                “No, I’m not! I swear, it’s just that I’ve thought about us getting married, sure, but now it’s actually official. And I’ve always been such a planner, but we’re so _young_. And I know you were young, and I suppose I just wondered how it affected you. My mum….” Molly’s face fell a little, more out of understanding than pity. “She was already 30 when she had me, and had established a full career. And she and my father never planned on having any more children, so it was just me.” She was babbling. Raving. She was being ridiculous. But then she looked up at Molly again and she remembered exactly why she’d come here instead of anywhere else. If there was anything Molly was good at, it was knowing how to comfort a person. She had so much love and so much warmth in her that it just effused from her every pore. Molly just gave her a close-mouthed smile, patted her hand, and turned to warm up her tea.

                “I was 21 when Bill was born,” she started easily, “and if you really want to think about how long ago that was, Harry’s parents would have been first years at the time.”

                “Wow,” Hermione said a little tactlessly, but Molly just laughed.

                “We were only four years out of school ourselves,” she shrugged, “We were so young, and mad for each other. Arthur was just starting to get noticed in the ministry and I was working in a shop in Diagon Alley…Oh don’t make that face at me, girlie, not all of us knew just what we wanted early on.”

                “But then you had Bill?”               

                “Not quite. Even with Bill and Charlie, I was still working. We had a lot of expenses and we simply couldn’t make ends meet on Arthur’s wages. Not to mention, they made me a manager and put me in charge of scheduling. Fred and George didn’t get their business sense from _Arthur_. But then I had Percy and my uncle left me the Burrow. So I quit my job and made this old place a home.”

                Hermione had heard a hundred thousand stories about Mr. and Mrs. Weasley during their school days and the early years of their marriage. Arthur had endless anecdotes about Molly with the boys, during her pregnancies, how wonderful she’d been. A pure force of nature, he said. And of course, the boys had virtually no memories of their childhoods that didn’t feature their mum in some way. She was the solid pillar holding the whole thing up, the foundation, the walls, whatever kind of metaphor suited your fancy, Molly Weasley was exactly _that_. And Hermione, well, she had never really seen any similarities between her and the Weasley matriarch. She wasn’t a homemaker, she worked far too much. She could cook, but not like _Molly_. And sure, she was all right with children, but she’d not had a lot of experience with them outside of Teddy and Harry was always there to take over. Harry was _so good_ with kids. It was absolutely adorable.

                “But… _how_?”

                “Oh Hermione…”            

                “I know…” She inhaled deeply, “I know that there’s a learning curve and that sometimes, you just have to make things up as you go.” Molly snorted, indicating that this was quite an understatement. “And when it’s _Ron_ , well, I can do that. I’ve been doing that since I was _eleven_ for Merlin’s sake, but _children_?” She didn’t mean for that last part to come out as a squeak but it did. Molly had to cover her mouth to hide her amusement, but she did a poor job of it. Merriment twinkled from her eyes like sodding Christmas lights at night. “But honestly!” Hermione insisted, getting a little desperate. “When is it that you _know_ it’s the right time to start having children? And how on earth are you supposed to balance all of that with a productive career? And when do you _stop_? I can _say_ that we’re only going to have two, and space them three years apart, but _things happen_. You didn’t plan for Fred and George! And I know _for a fact_ that Ginny was accidental!”

                Molly burst into a fit of giggles, nodding her head at the memory, and at Hermione’s vehemence on the subject. Ron had been somewhat of an accident as well, as the twins were handful enough.

                “Oh dearie, I’m afraid there aren’t any answers for those questions,” she said breathlessly patting her hand.

                “There aren’t any answers for what questions?” Ginny asked sunnily, waltzing in from the parlor and snatching an apple from the counter across the room. She perched herself up on the counter next to the sink, taking a big bite. Molly frowned at her but said nothing.

                “Ron and Hermione are engaged, dear.”

                Hermione was not prepared for the sheer force of Ginny’s excitement. She launched herself from the counter to sweep Hermione up in a tight hug, shouting about how she’d finally have a normal sister-in-law, “Well,” she conceded, “as normal as a swot like you can get.” Hermione rolled her eyes and dove in for another hug, letting herself be calmed by Ginny’s familiar form and smell. They’d be friends forever and now they were going to be sisters. It didn’t get much better than that. But then Ginny pulled back, her arms still tight around Hermione’s waist.

                “But wait, what questions are you asking mum?” She leaned around to get a look at her mother, eyebrow arched in question, before looking back at Hermione. “Oh Merlin you’re not up the duff are you?”

                “Ginny!”

                “ _No_!” Hermione scowled, “Why must everyone assume I’m pregnant?” Ginny plopped down into a nearby chair.

                “Well what is it then? Bit soon for cold feet innit?”

                With a heavy sigh, Hermione paced the room and explained her thought processes all over again. Though, having already voiced it, she found it was easier to be more articulate. She was somewhat less embarrassed now that Ginny was there. Out of everyone, Ginny would understand her feelings, even if Mrs. Weasley didn’t. But Ginny’s face pinched and she got very quiet the longer Hermione went on, and she began to despair. When she finally stopped herself and sat across from the two red headed women, she was shaking and all out of breath.

                “That scares me too.” Molly looked like she wanted to say something. “No, mum, honestly. All I could think growing up was that I didn’t want to…be like you. At home with a bunch of kids and nothing for myself.”

                “ _Exactly_ ,” Hermione exhaled. “And there’s not exactly a manual on how to do all of this, how to have both without making one bad…”

                “And Merlin knows men have expectations. Harry wants a big brood, house in the country, idyllic. He just wants what he didn’t have.”

                Hermione sighed, because that was precisely the kind of thing Harry would want. He’d want something that reminded him nothing of his own storied past. “Ron says he wants whatever I want.”

                Ginny snorted. “What about you, mum? Did you and Dad plan any of this?” She swiped Hermione’s tea, adding sugar to her own specifications and drinking deeply. Hermione was too worked up for tea. Molly smiled fondly, memories crossing through her line of sight.

                “Heavens, no,” she told them firmly. “Your father and I had been together for so long that we already knew that we worked best when improvising.” She giggled. “Found that out after a few late nights on the roof of Ravenclaw tower.”

                “ _Mum_!” Ginny whined, but Hermione chuckled, having heard several of those stories.

                Molly grew serious suddenly, “What you both have to understand is that when I was a girl, we were _trained_ to be housewives. To be mothers and homemakers. Not much else was expected of us. As the only daughter, I was supposed to make a good marriage to a pureblood family of good standing.” She pursed her lips. “My mother wanted me to marry a Slytherin boy whose family we had known for years, and she _hated_ Arthur, so we were always sneaking around, avoiding Muriel and rumors.” She chuckled, looking at Ginny pointedly. “Working in that shop might as well have been a slap in my mum’s face, she was so offended.”

                “Really?” Hermione knew that her own mum had dealt with a good deal of misogyny and various obstacles in trying to establish herself as a dentist. In fact, she was only truly successful because her husband had put his name on their practice first. 

                “Really. When I married your father, she took me out of the will and told me I would have to _settle_ for your father’s wages. I laughed in her face and told her I was getting a job, and that since she disinherited me, she couldn’t do a damn thing about it!”

                “Mum, you wild thing!”

                “I very much was back in those days,” Molly said with a knowing grin. She patted Ginny’s head. “But when Percy came along I decided that my children would always be more important than my pride. So I put all that house-training nonsense to good use. _Without_ a house-elf, I might add. One of the few things I could still throw in my mother’s face.” She cleared her throat. “So I understand a little about not wanting to be your mother, young lady,” Her eyes slanted over to her daughter, who had the decency to look chagrined. “But all I can tell you girls is to follow your gut. No one can tell you what’s right and what’s not. Babies happen, sometimes without your say so. You learn very quickly how to adjust.” She stroked Ginny’s hair affectionately. “You’ll know when it’s time for a change. You’ll just…feel it. There are some women who ignore those feelings because they don’t want to upset their men, but I didn’t raise the two of you to be quiet when you’re unhappy. Did I?”

                “No, Mum,” Ginny said as Hermione said, “No, Mrs. Weasley.”

                “Exactly,” she slapped the table. “The both of you have good heads on your shoulders, you work harder than anyone I know, and you care very deeply about the things that you deem important. That’s a sight better than most. So.” She turned and took Hermione’s hands in her own, Ginny slapped hers on top. “Trust yourself, have a little faith, and you’ll find your way.” And both of the Weasley women were looking at her with so much love and confidence that Hermione felt the tears slipping.

                “Oh Merlin, I’m crying. This is horrible.” The two of them cooed and darted around the table to encircle her in hugs and kisses to her head, rocking her as she cried happily.

                “What’s all this?” Ron’s voice demanded from the entryway. He looked like he’d dressed rather hastily and his face was strained with panic. “I wake up and you’re…” He gaze flicked to Molly, “Not down the hall like you ought to be, then I find you here bawling your eyes out?” With a rush of fondness, Hermione tore herself away from them and flung herself into Ron’s arms. He caught her easily, tucking her head under his chin. “What did you do?” he asked his mum and sister accusingly. Hermione felt him curve protectively around her. She tried to explain, but her words were muffled by his shirt because he was holding her so tightly. “What?”

                She pinched his side so he would loosen his grip and tilted her head back to look up at him, “ _I said_ I came over to tell your mum our news.”

                “Without me? And that made you cry?” Ginny snorted at his confusion, earning her a light corrective slap to her arm from her mother. Hermione worried at her lip, not really knowing how she could explain how she felt without worrying him. Even after all that time, Ron was still insecure in his ability to please her. He made her angry beyond reason at times, but he really did make an effort when it counted. She didn’t want him to think any of it was his fault. So she smiled and went up on her toes to kiss his cheek.

                “Just wanted to talk. I’ll tell you later.” He eyed her warily, but nodded.

                “Good!” Ginny chirped. “Now that’s settled, sit your arse down and tell us how you popped the question.”

                “ _Ginny_.”

                “Do we have to talk about this _now_? I haven’t eaten _anything_ …” The counterargument came in the form of Mrs. Weasley summoning self-warming trays of breakfast food, as if she had been expecting her children to show up. Ron professed his love for his mother and tucked in while Hermione laughingly related the calamity that was Ron’s proposal. Ginny had a good long laugh at his expense, but softened the blow by admitting that he had chosen a fantastic ring.

                “Harry helped with that actually. Went alone the first time, but the people were barmy,” Ron told them around mouthfuls of toast, “Harry waltzes in and the clerks are fawning all over him, offering every little detail of insight. I couldn’t narrow it down, so he picked out three and I chose that one.”

                “I love it,” Hermione whispered, turning to lean into him at the same time Ginny incredulously shouted, “ _Harry_ helped?”

                “Harry helped what?” the namesake asked, having appeared behind Ginny to swipe her toast.

                “When did you get here?” she demanded, as if they’d made plans and he was late.

                “Just a moment ago. Woke up and…” His eyes flicked over to Molly, “You weren’t down the hall where you should’ve been.” Hermione snorted. _Boys_. “Assumed you were here.” He poked her neck, “Now I want credit for whatever I helped with.”

                “Mione’s ring,” Ron offered, sliding an arm around her waist even though he was still eating.

                Harry beamed at them, hands gesticulating wildly, “You finally did it! That’s awesome!” He jogged around the table and dove to hug Hermione’s other side, kissing her cheek theatrically. “Now, Hermione, we have some business to attend to.” He shuffled around a bit and pulled out a spare piece of parchment. “About the proposal, was it public or private? Indoors or out? During a planned activity or did he trip over his shoelaces and the box fell out?” He told her she had a whole bunch of options to choose from and that she had to mark them down on the parchment and sign it. “There is a lot of money riding on this…”

                “Oi!” Ron protested, earning him a sympathetic pat from his mother.

                “So you need to be specific. Neville has much more faith in your betrothed than I do…” Then they were all laughing at Ron’s expense as Hermione filled out Harry’s prepared form, telling him how it had happened. In the end, almost every member of the DA had won some aspect of the pool. Ron was blushing furiously, but Hermione felt so light and giddy that she couldn’t help but laugh along with them. She was so deliriously happy and relieved. And as she sat with just a small fraction of her family, she realized that was exactly what she had: _family_. Even if she would have to endure pregnancy alone, even if she had to make the decisions for herself and worry over them alone, there would always be people around her to support those decisions. To lighten her load. Because she would absolutely do the same for them. It was so overwhelming, that she felt herself tearing up again, much to Ron’s bafflement.

                “Why are you crying again?” But Hermione just clamped her arms around his and laughed through the tears.


End file.
